


Connection

by bigblueboxat221b, OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Greg Lestrade, Asexual Mycroft Holmes, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Awkward Conversations, M/M, Online Dating, POV Alternating, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 46,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24142504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: From an extended prompt on twitter.Greg's never really looked closely at his sexuality, until a throwaway comment with someone makes him see himself in a different light. He begins to realise there might be possibilities he'd never considered out there.Mycroft has always pushed away his own sexuality, until an unfamiliar term sends him on a steep learning curve. All of a sudden there could be something out there for him, if he only takes the chance.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 383
Kudos: 353
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny Adoptions





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scaredycattales](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scaredycattales/gifts).



> Well this started as a short FTH story and it's grown quite considerably! I'm really enjoying exploring this aspect of Greg and Mycroft as they discover truths about themselves and each other. I don't know exactly where we're going or how long it will take us to get there, so join me as we explore.

“Sure, I understand,” Greg lied, relief and guilt flowing through him in equal measures. Who was happy when their date said they weren’t interested?

Susan gave him an awkward smile, and they both waved as she walked away.

“Fuck,” Greg muttered to himself. He signalled the bartender and asked for another drink, knowing it was a bad idea to change to scotch and not caring in the least.

“Bad date?” the bartender asked as he poured.

“Is there any other kind?” Greg asked dryly.

“I hear you,” the bartender replied. He glanced around the mostly empty bar. “I’m guessing you’ve had a bad run.”

“Divorced a year ago,” Greg said, the previous three pints loosening his tongue, “and I’ve had a bunch of dates, but…” he sighed. It was embarrassing.

The bartender leaned one hip against the sink, clearly prepared to have a conversation. “They’re not that into you?”

“I’m not that into them,” Greg corrected, drinking half his scotch in one go.

The bartender looked at him speculatively. “Have you tried dating men?” he asked casually.

“Yeah,” Greg said. He tried for a laugh. “I’ll date anyone, not that fussy.”

“So you’re more about the connection,” the bartender said.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. He sighed, tossing back the last of his Scotch and handing over more than enough cash. “Thanks, mate.”

“No worries,” the bartender said with a nod.

+++

_More about the connection._

The phrase rolled around in Greg’s head the entire way home. It felt right, in the way sometimes thing just…did. He couldn’t quite work out why, but the beer won out and he fell asleep across his bed. When he woke up the next day the first thing he thought was, _that bartender was right_.

Lying on his bed, stretching his bad shoulder, Greg thought about the words. The quiet morning felt different somehow. Safer to look at the thoughts he usually pushed down. He’d wondered about himself before, about whether he was different, but it had always felt frightening. Today it didn’t. The bartender’s words, casual and non-judgemental, had given him a quiet permission to examine that part of himself.

_It is more about the connection. But what does that mean?_

Greg thought about his recent dates. They’d matched on a dating site. He’d been hesitant to sign up at all, but the nagging voice in his head pointed out he wouldn’t ever meet someone sitting on his couch. It sounded terribly like all his mates, his family, his sister and her unhelpful friends.

He just hadn’t met the right person.

The person he’d be really attracted to.

The person…

Greg took a deep breath, his automatic mental block stopping his thought.

_No._

His fingers curled into the sheet and he fought to acknowledge the words.

The person…

_See the words. Hear the truth._

The person he’d want to have sex with.

The thought was alien, but this time Greg didn’t shove the feeling away. Today, he examined it and tentatively considered accepting it. He shuddered, the newly acknowledged truth searing through him.

_I’ve never met someone I wanted to have sex with._

Greg drew a deep, uneven breath.

He’d never admitted it even to himself.

He concentrated on his breathing for a few minutes, monitoring his body, lying completely still. He could still feel his fingers, twisting tight in the fabric underneath him.

His heart was beating fast, but it wasn’t panic-racing.

He could feel the pulse in his temple, but it wasn’t threatening to explode his head.

His skin was tingling but it wasn’t crawling with unbearable itching.

Tentatively, Greg shifted his hips, then rolled over, sitting up on the edge of his bed.

The world didn’t end.

In fact, it was much the same as it always had been. He could see the sun trying to push through the clouds, the dead plant on the windowsill, his trousers in tangle on the floor. Everything was the same, except perhaps for the monumental shift inside. Tentatively, Greg reached for the thought again, wondering if he’d be able to bear it again.

_I’ve never met someone I wanted to have sex with._

It was…okay.

He licked his lips wondering if he was pushing it too far. His jaw clicked as he opened his mouth, allowing several lungfuls of air to pass in and out before he pushed the words out.

“I…I’ve never wanted to…have sex. With anyone.”

It was hardly a whisper, in his empty room in his empty flat, but Greg felt tears prickle his eyes as his hands shook. It was a _moment_. The beginning of a change. It was a beam of light through his shame, admitting that this was as much a part of him as any other.

Jesus.

So who was he?

Was there even a word for it?

Rubbing his hands down his thighs, Greg wondered if there was anyone else like him. The thought rattled through his brain as he stood up and made his way into the bathroom. It was hardly new; in his lowest times that was one of the first things that came to mind. This time the tone was different. He wasn’t berating himself; the ugly, derisive language that so often followed was absent.

He was just…wondering.

As he flicked on the kettle for a cuppa, the bartender’s words came back to him.

_More about the connection._

Greg tilted his head, remembering more than just the words. The calm way he said it, like it was as much an option as anything else. The assessing gaze, as though he was interested in how Greg was thinking about himself, but without judgement.

_Maybe…_

The tea burned Greg’s mouth and he jerked back out of his own head. Putting his mug on the counter, Greg found a jumper, still thinking as he tugged it down his body. He certainly couldn’t talk to anyone in his real life about this. And worst case, if the bartender thought he was weird, he’d just never go back. Nobody would ever need to know. Besides, they had a band tonight. He could just go and listen to the band, and if he didn’t want to talk to the bartender about…what he’d realised, he didn’t have to.

He spent the rest of the day restlessly bouncing from one activity to the next, finally channelling the energy into cleaning. At least he was getting something done, and by the time it was dark he was calmer. Well, part of him was calmer, he acknowledged as he shaved and chose a new shirt. He was still anxious enough to have spilled his supper down his front. Served him right for standing at the hob to eat, he thought smiling to himself.

Greg refused to let himself think too much on the way over. He’d arrived too late to get a seat at the bar, which was fine with him. It was a busy enough night that Greg couldn’t see if the same bartender was working; there were a few behind the bar, and it was a pretty blonde that pulled his beer this time. Others were pushing to get served so Greg took himself off to a small table on the other side of the room, content to listen to the music for a while.

He found his gaze wandering over the crowd, watching their body language. Some people were easy to read; he wondered if they realised how obvious it was what they wanted. Part of it was his job, of course; he had a lot of practice studying body language. Was it common for people to be able to read it even if they didn’t really want what was on offer?

The flow of people peaked around midnight, and the bar slowly started emptying when the band finished. Greg had been nursing his beer for a while, trying to find the right balance between Dutch courage and too inebriated, when a good stretch of polished bar became free. A big group finally left and his heart thumped hard as he noticed the same bartender from last night collecting glasses. He caught Greg’s eye and grinned, nodding in recognition. Greg nodded back, releasing a big breath when he turned away with the dirty glasses.

It would make sense to go over now.

Tipping up the last of his drink, Greg stood up, pleased that he didn’t feel drunk. He skirted around the tables and chairs, finally easing up onto a bar stool.

“Hey,” the bartender said when he came back to wipe the bench. “Good to see you again.”

“Greg,” Greg said, introducing himself.

“Tom,” the bartender replied. “Another?”

“Better make it a light,” Greg said.

“Here on your own tonight?” Tom said. He glanced around. “No luck?”

“Not looking,” Greg replied. The words edged out around his heart, lurking bulkily in his mouth. “Actually, I want to…ask you something.”

“Right?” Tom said, raising an eyebrow. “Let me grab a seat.”

“Oh, it’s not that important,” Greg started, but Tom was halfway around the bar.

“Important enough you’ve come back in,” Tom said. “Don’t worry, it’s my bar. Happy to sit and have a chat with someone that’s not drunk or trying to get into my pants at this point.” He grinned. “Assuming you’re not?”

“No,” Greg said quickly.

Tom took the stool beside him, leaning back with his own beer in hand. “So what can I do for you?”

Now that the moment was here, Greg had no idea where to start.

“Well,” he said, flexing his fingers around the wet base of his pint. “It was something you said last night, it’s been kind of stuck in my head.”

“Right,” Tom said patiently.

_Fuck. Just say it._

“I’ve never really talked about it,” Greg blurted. “But what you said…it made sense to me. About what I look for. In a…in a partner.”

“Okay,” Tom said. He took a sip of his beer. “So I’m guessing if you came back you wanted to talk about it?”

He didn’t look upset or anything, so Greg just nodded.

“What did I say, exactly?” Tom said patiently. “Talked to a lot of people last night.”

“That I was more about the connection,” Greg said.

“Yeah?” Tom replied. “And that made sense to you.” It was a statement, but he was looking to Greg to confirm he was right.

“Yeah,” Greg said. Tom’s casual acceptance of it gave him courage. “I’ve been…thinking about it. About what I want when I find a…someone.”

“It’s a good place to start,” Tom said.

He seemed happy enough to sit with the silence. Greg watched one of the roadies packing up the drum kit before he was able to say the next thing. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Tom as he let the words fall between them.

“I…I’ve never wanted to…have sex. With anyone.”

Tom took a drink, and let the words sit for a minute before he spoke. “Okay,” he said calmly. “At the risk of sounding like my therapist, how do you feel about that?”

Greg looked at him in surprise. “You see a therapist?”

Tom grinned. “Hell yes. Can’t say I knew a single person who’d have understood what was in my head a few years ago. Hell, I didn’t understand it.”

“But you do now?”

“A bit more,” Tom said. He looked at Greg. “It was more about,” he paused, “having the right words? Yeah. Knowing there were enough other people around that there was a word for how I am.” He grinned and shrugged. “Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, the relief coursing through him. He wanted to make his hand lift his pint, but he seemed to be shaking too much. Instead he slid his fingers under his thigh, pressing it into the warm leather below him.

“So,” Tom said, with a careful sideways glance at Greg, “did you want to know…I mean, can hook you up with some people, if you wanted to talk to someone?”

Greg’s reaction – a shot of panic – must have shown on his face, because Tom added hastily, “or I can give you some terms, if you wanted to look on the internet?”

Greg felt his shoulder relax and he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, that’d be great.”

“Well,” Tom said, “you said you’ve dated different people. Men and women?” Greg nodded. “Well I mean there’s a bunch of ways people identify themselves. Different people are comfortable with different words-”

“Yeah, that bit’s aright,” Greg interrupted, relieved. He was a little more comfortable with this end of it. “I’ve been…I reckon I’m bi.” He laughed a bit. “That’s…people know about that. Mostly.”

Some people, he amended in his head. Some people at work knew he’d dated men, but it wasn’t really something he brought up. But at least he’d talked about that before. That part of him felt more normal. At least he knew there were other bi people out there.

“Okay,” Tom said. “Well that’s one thing, the who. But there’s a whole ‘nother part to it. The what. What you’re looking for in your relationship.”

Greg nodded, not entirely following.

“Some people experience sexual attraction,” Tom said. It was such an obvious statement that it made so much sense when he added, “And some don’t. For some people it doesn’t come until they know someone really well.”

“Okay,” Greg said. Jesus, for all he thought he knew about the spectrum of people…

“Look, there’s a heap more,” Tom said. He was looking carefully at Greg. “And I’ve probably explained that bit badly.”

“No,” Greg said. “It makes sense.” He swallowed. “Is there… if I was going to, I dunno, google something?”

“Asexual is a term a lot of people use,” Tom said. “Or demisexual. There’re a lot of terms.” His eyes were empathetic as he spoke quietly. “There’re a lot of people who use them, too.”

Greg nodded. His heart wasn’t pounding, but he felt somehow…fragile. He reckoned Tom could read him pretty well right now and he was being very tactful. “Thanks,” Greg said. “I didn’t know…thanks.”

“No worries mate,” Tom said. “It’s a lot to take in, when you figure out something new about yourself.”

“Yeah,” Greg huffed. It certainly was.

“And if you ever want me to introduce you to anyone, just some mates that might know where you’re at, let me know,” Tom said.

“Oh, I’m not quite there yet,” Greg said. “Don’t mind the dating apps, myself.”

“Oh, well if that’s your thing, you could try Ace,” Tom said.

“Ace?” Greg repeated.

“Yeah, it’s a dating app for people that identify as asexual,” Tom said. “Couple of my mates are on it.”

“Okay,” Greg said uncertainly. Tom certainly seemed to know a lot of different people. He wasn’t fussed at all about what Greg was saying. And if there was an app, surely that meant there was a lot of people like him. A _lot_ lot.

“Relationships without sex,” Tom assured him. “Otherwise it’s exactly the same.”

“I’ll look into it,” Greg told him. He wasn’t going to commit to anything right now – it already felt like he had enough to be working with for the moment. But the idea of other people wanting that closeness he craved without sex…it pulled powerfully in him.

_I’m not weird, then._

“Sure,” Tom said, downing the rest of his drink.

Looking up, Greg realised the rest of the bar was empty. “Jesus, I should go.”

“Sure,” Tom said easily. “Well, I’m here most nights if you want to drop in.”

“Cheers,” Greg said.

Tom stood up, offering his hand. Greg shook it gladly, hoping Tom could tell how appreciative he was.

“See you soon,” Tom said. “Let me know how things are going, alright?” He handed Greg a business card. “I’m here if you need to talk.”

“Thanks,” Greg said. He was far more emotional than he really should be.

He took himself off home, and though he thought he should be thinking, he instead fell asleep and slept deeply.

+++

The next day was Sunday. Greg woke late and spent a while staring at the ceiling, thinking about the previous night. He felt okay, considering what a big day yesterday had turned out to be. Asexual. That was what Tom had said.

Reaching over, Greg pulled out his laptop from the side of the bed. It took hardly a second to type in the single word and he was stunned for a second that there were so many matches. The first thing he saw was a snippet from the top hit.

_Asexuality is defined as a lack of sexual attraction; an asexual is someone who is not sexually attracted to anyone._

Holy shit.

Greg took a deep breath. It was such a calm statement, as though it was perfectly normal.

_It is, Greg._

That voice was new, and it sounded a lot like Tom. Calm, factual, non-judgemental. Greg liked it. He kept reading.

_Asexuals can be romantically attracted to other people, for example, a biromantic asexual is someone who is not sexually attracted to anyone, but is romantically attracted to males and females._

Greg read it again carefully, his heart beating fast. He clicked on the link and read through it, his head swimming by the end. There were a lot of new words to get his head around, and a lot were very similar. He opened a second tab – and then a third – to keep them straight. Well, not, he said to himself with a slightly hysterical snort of laughter. With a deep breath, Greg clicked back to his first page of results. He knew enough about this kind of thing to look for links to reputable websites. The last thing he needed was to be reading some rant on a personal blog. He needed real, proper information. Settling in, he chose a link with a government extension. That would be a good place to start.

A while later, Greg emerged. He blinked at the ceiling, letting his head clear a little. Holy shit, there was a whole world he’d never even heard of out there. He’d skimmed over some of it, more interested in finding terms he might apply to himself than immersing himself in every variation of identity out there, and right now he thought he might have something that kind of fit.

Biromantic demi-sexual. Or possibly grey-sexual, he wasn’t entirely sure he knew enough about either of them to know which fit best yet. Were they even different things? Hard to know right now.

It was a mouthful, he thought, but most of them were, when you were trying to cover so much specific information. He was definitely bi – that bit he was comfortable with. He’d always been romantically drawn to both men and women, so it was easy enough to reconcile in his mind.

The other was more difficult.

For all his reading, Greg couldn’t decide if grey-sexual or demi-sexual would be the right term. From what he could tell, it was only Karen – his first girlfriend, a friend of his sister – for whom he’d ever really felt sexual attraction. There had been other girlfriends and boyfriends before his wife, and by then he’d accepted that some people had to have more sex than they really wanted. And in all his relationships, it was Greg who wanted less. Well, none really. It was the main reason Gloria had wanted a divorce in the end – his lack of desire for sex equated to a lack of care, in her eyes.

So he wasn’t really sure if _grey_ or _demi_ was the right term. Goodness knew he and Gloria had only known each other a few months before they’d gotten hitched. Hesitantly, he pulled out his phone and texted Tom.

_Hey Tom, it’s Greg. Thanks again for last night. I’ve been on google a bit. There’s heaps of information out there!_

_No problem. Don’t worry too much about finding the perfect definition. You don’t have to fit into a box. Come in soon and let me know how you’re going. Cheers_ _J_

Greg stared at the words. Tom really had a way of saying what he needed to hear. It didn’t really matter which label fit him exactly. Well, it kind of did, but he didn’t have to figure it out right now. He could just…let it simmer in his head. But he was pretty sure asexual was right for him. And knowing other people were interested in getting to know each other without sex...it was exciting. Relieving? He couldn’t settle on an exact term, but his fingers trembled as he traded his laptop for his phone.

It only took a few moments to download Ace.

It looked exactly like every other dating app Greg had ever tried – and there had been a few. At least that experience would be helpful, he thought as he started his profile. He even had pictures ready to go. That was the easy bit. He hesitated over the ‘What I’m Looking For’ section. Usually it was ‘Men’, ‘Women’, or ‘Either’. Here, they were asking him to think about what he wanted in the relationship. He supposed specific was better, but it was all a bit overwhelming.

For now, he clicked ‘anyone’ and ‘asexual’. He could get more specific if he needed to. Right now it seemed better to keep his options open.

Before he knew it, he was ready to match, apparently. At least it worked the same as he was used to. Left for yes, right for no, up for super-yes. Seemed easy enough. He might as well have a look, then.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft breathed a little easier once he was inside his own flat. There was no reason to fear his work computer was any less secure than his desktop at home. The encryption software on both was the best available, of course, but he just felt a little more comfortable in his study. If nothing else, there was less chance he’d receive a phone call to interrupt him. And if anyone checked his browser history at work, there was an excellent reason to explain the terms for which he’d been looking so far. What he was planning next was less easily explained.

Not that he cared right now. Door closed, keys and mobile phones both away, Mycroft reached for the good Scotch. Two fingers poured with a shaking hand and drunk in a single gulp and he felt marginally better. He poured another generous measure and carried it into his office. Fingers loosened his top button as his computer booted up. It was cool in here until the heating kicked in, so he left his jacket on; the layers felt like protection, anyway.

When he’d opened his browser, Mycroft stared at the cursor for a few minutes, wondering where to begin. Of course he remembered what had happened at work; even without his excellent memory, it was burned into his brain.

_…the target identifies as grey-sexual. As such a professional approach will be more likely to succeed…_

Mycroft had blinked, disconcerted by the experience of reading something he didn’t understand.

_Grey-sexual…_

Generally, Mycroft ignored his own sexuality. Though he was intellectually aware he was drawn to men in some way, he had made no research into any shades of identity that might exist. This was a term he’d never come across, and though he trusted his assistant, avoiding conversations about sex was very high on his personal priorities list.

Thank God for Google.

Confident the unusual search would be easily explained by his working document, Mycroft opened a web browser and three seconds later, his world froze.

_Grey-a, or grey-asexuality, refers to sexual identities along a spectrum of asexuality and sexuality. Those who identify as grey-a experience no sexual attraction or desire sex only rarely or under certain conditions._

Mycroft had no idea how long he sat staring at those words. They throbbed through his blood, the truth of their application searing into him until he could deny it no longer.

Anthea was surprised when he requested his car to take him home. The ride was silent, his street deserted in the middle of the afternoon, unfamiliar in the light of day. Not until he was inside did he stop and allow his mind to resume.

And now, when he would usually have a thousand thoughts fighting for space in his considerable brain, only one thing sat there, surrounded by the blankness of absolute truth.

_There’s a word for what I am. There are others like me._

Mycroft swallowed, not even trusting his shaking hand to pick up the tumbler of Scotch at his elbow. His brain was too shocked to analyse anything; he was too busy working on acceptance. Was it true? From the number of hits that had come up, it was a legitimate term. Hesitantly, Mycroft found a link with a government extension and steeled himself for more information. He knew his brain would do better with more data; the more technical the better. God knew he wanted to avoid the emotion as much as possible.

He wasn’t ready for that.

Several hours later, judging by the pain in his lower back, Mycroft sat back, staring at the ceiling, blinking and squinting a little as his brain whirred. Much of what he’d read was new, though old emotions were dragged to the surface as he found words to describe experiences he always thought were unique. With a wince, Mycroft stood, still not forcing thoughts on his still working brain. He was trying to push out the memories of his earlier years, but as he lowered himself into his wingback chair, a mug of cocoa pressed hot against his palm, there was no way to keep them out.

Closing his eyes, Mycroft allowed himself to be drawn back into that difficult time.

He’d been far too advanced for his secondary school of course; his GCSE’s were complete almost before he’d hit puberty. He endured several years at home under the tutelage of private tutors before he made his way to Oxford in time for his seventeenth birthday.

Until that point, Mycroft had no reason to even consider his own sexuality. While he’d concluded early on that the young men of their local village and on staff were of more interest than the young women, neither had been so irresistible – or available – that Mycroft had made any effort to pursue either. His studies had consumed him, and whether through nature or nurture, he was an awkward and quiet person. Social interactions were difficult and unnecessary, so by the time he arrived at university, Mycroft was exceptionally unfamiliar with the art of seduction from either direction.

He’d already privately decided to change that before he arrived at Oxford. Finding a group of open minded individuals was easy; nobody seemed to care that he was only interested in speaking with the men. Indeed, the women were happy to introduce him to their male friends. Mycroft found his skill at reading body language translated nicely into interpreting the interest of the other students in him. He mentally thanked his parents for insisting it befit his social status to be able to read people he didn’t know. That at least was useful.

He’d assumed the challenge would be convincing others to be interested in him. Little had he expected that it was not others’ interest that would be lacking, but his own. His ability to effectively feign attraction at a superficial level was not in question, though he did have to admit that the bar was particularly low at a university group of open minded people. To his intense humiliation, Mycroft found that once things became more intimate, his determination failed him, not to mention his body. It wasn’t long before it was made clear that he was not welcome. The derision and dismissal was seared into his memory, and Mycroft isolated himself from the rest of the student body instead.

The rest was history. A career focussed on, a body largely ignored, a past buried deep.

Until today. Until this unfamiliar term appeared in an otherwise innocuous report and rocked the foundation of Mycroft’s understanding of himself.

The cocoa was lukewarm by the time he remembered he was holding it. Looking at his history through the lens of his new knowledge changed how he viewed himself, and it was unsettling to say the least. As the sweet chocolate coated the inside of his mouth, Mycroft attempted to construct a sentence using his new vocabulary.

_I may be grey-sexual._

It was not as difficult as he thought it might be. He’d never had a term for that aspect of himself.

With a deep breath, he reached for something new, something that was closer to the core of pain he had buried so deeply.

_I’m not the only one._

That was harder to resolve. Mycroft had built most of his life on the idea that he was unique, a person with a unique skill set professionally, impossible to replace or function without. The persona he’d carefully crafted was self-contained, and at this point his social circle was non-existent. He functioned independently of almost everyone else, and it was only today that he was tentatively acknowledging that at least to some extent, he was motivated by his desire to never be in the position he’d found himself at university. Opening himself up lead to derision and ridicule and he’d taken the lesson deeply to heart.

But perhaps…

Mycroft set that part aside for the moment. The more interesting part of what he’d discovered was not that there were other people who did not desire sexually intimate relationships. That information on its own was useless, unless he the comfort he sought was platonic. What was the use in knowing there were other people out there if all they wanted was to get together and not have sex? Surely, that was…friendship. It certainly didn’t explain his desire for affection. Intimacy borne of closeness and care without the physical relationship everyone else seemed to expect.

And then he’d found a forum, where somebody called _ConfuzEd1_ had explained a concept that had never occurred to Mycroft – the separation of romantic desire and sexual desire. His desire to be close to other people, to cultivate a relationship intimate without being sexual – that was normal.

_I’m not abnormal._

That small idea was the tipping point. Shaking, Mycroft put his mug down and covered his face. The tears dripping down his face were hot and now his brain jumped into the overdrive he’d worried about earlier. Concerns swirled, personal and professional blurring together until his mind was a mush.

With a sob, Mycroft stood, stumbling into his bathroom. The small green pills were strictly one at a time; they were intended for intense migraines or similar. He choked one down without water and toed off his shoes on the way to collapse onto the bed. Mercifully the pill did its job and within seconds a blanket of sleep dropped over him.

+++

The next day Mycroft woke suddenly, drawing a deep breath as though in shock. He couldn’t remember what happened. Rolling over and realising he was still fully dressed was hardly a unique situation, but when he realised his teeth were unbrushed, the previous day flooded back in new acknowledgements about himself.

_I may be grey-sexual._

_I’m not the only one._

_I’m not abnormal._

That last one was still difficult. Mycroft stared at himself as he brushed his teeth, wondering if the new facets of his identity were visible. He could see the redness in his eyes and the uncertainty, but surely that was just because he was here, at home. Work would be easier. Drawing himself up and replacing his toothbrush, Mycroft pulled his professional façade around himself, raising one eyebrow in the mirror.

It was a familiar face that returned his gaze.

_Nobody will be able to tell._

Mycroft nodded to himself. He intended to return to work today, but first he would have to deal with the mess he’d left in his flat. He cleaned up his cocoa mug and the makings of it in the kitchen, then stepped into his office. Jesus, he hadn’t even shut down his computer; when he shifted the mouse and logged in, the forum he’d looked at was still open. Before he could close the widow, something caught his eye.

A second reply to the question, below the explanation separating romantic and sexual desire. It was short, from an anonymous contributor, but the few words resonated with him.

_Whatever labels you chose – and you might not chose any! – they don’t change who you are. Just how you see yourself._

Mycroft blinked, groping for the chair before he lowered himself into it. Jesus, another new idea. He was already bracing for the panic he was certain was coming to engulf him. For long seconds he concentrated on his breathing, monitoring his body, sitting completely still.

His heart remained steady.

His fingers shook, but not uncontrollably.

The silence in his ears was not punctured by frantic breathing.

In fact, as Mycroft braced for panic, he realised the precise opposite was happening.

The new idea was making it easier.

_I might be grey-sexual – but it may not matter._

_The label is less important than how I see myself._

Mycroft drew a deep breath and formed another sentence he wouldn’t have imagined he would.

_I’m not abnormal._

It was liberating. Unexpectedly so. Rather than defining himself by someone else’s terms, he could simply chose not to do so. He could adjust his view of himself in any direction he chose – and there were words, should he want to use them, but it was hardly necessary.

For now, _not abnormal_ was enough. The clunky language was awkward, but he was by nature a cautious man. Leaning forward, he nudged the mouse again, bringing the screen back to brightness. Perhaps this was a good time to begin exploring a world he was apparently welcome to inhabit. The forum was a good place to begin; provided he was not intending to comment, he could do so entirely anonymously.

It proved a wealth of knowledge, and by the time Anthea called him, Mycroft had made some choices.

He took the day off. Anthea was surprised, but asked no questions. Mycroft made a mental note to add a few weeks’ paid leave to her personnel file.

He took out one of the burner phones kept in his emergency bag and set the SIM card and battery in place. A recent forum post had been about the use of ace friendly dating apps; Mycroft had never considered dating, let alone via an app. The further he read, though, the more appealing it sounded. He could vet people, more or less. A more formal background check would be required before he would actually be in a position to meet anybody, but he could consider it reconnaissance. A glimpse into the world without having to actually step in quite yet.

With slow fingers Mycroft downloaded the app recommended on the forum. Ace. People seeking relationships without the assumption of sex. He could hardly believe it was a possibility, let alone that he was sitting here downloading such.

Before it finished he was restless.

_I could have a shower._

Ignoring the potential symbolic implications of his sudden desire to clean himself, Mycroft took his time in the shower, telling himself he was giving his phone time to download the app. Choosing an outfit was usually a task over which he lingered, enjoying decisions about contrasting fabrics and patterns. Today it was a functional necessity; he chose without thinking, a conservative choice with none of his usual flare. Black pinstriped suit, a white shirt, dark grey tie. His mind was hardly on his task as he secured buttons and fixed his cufflinks.

Fixing his hair and brushing his teeth only drew out the waiting, and finally there were no other tasks to put it off.

Setting a tray of peppermint tea on his desk, Mycroft reached for the phone.

Setting up the app was a singularly unfamiliar experience. Mycroft hesitated over even the basics – clearly he wouldn’t be using his own name. Thus ‘Michael Hornes’ was created. He lacked a photo of course, but as Mycroft did not anticipate matching with anyone, it wouldn’t matter. If he’d thought the name was difficult, the ‘What I’m Looking For’ was positively bewildering.

Who would have thought there were so many possibilities? And he was encouraged to mark ‘all that apply’? With a shake of his head, Mycroft marked ‘men’ and ‘asexual’. Keeping his options broad seemed to be the best option. Right now he just wanted a sense of the landscape, so to speak. He filled in some other details, keeping his answers as close to the truth as possible, as all good lies were. Not that he was planning on matching with anyone, of course. When the process was over, he read the tutorial. Left for yes, right for no, up for super-yes. Seemed easy enough.

He might as well have a look, then.

+++

Finding men with whom he might like to meet was mildly surprising. Mycroft had not looked at other men with the intention of determining his own attraction to them in a very long time. He was surprised to find that he was drawn to some more than others. Reading their descriptions tended to make them immediately duller.

Looking at their photos rarely changed that opinion. Mycroft wondered if it was more likely he was asexual rather than demi-. Given the current evidence, there was no way to tell, of course. To be fair, he had not shown any interest in any of the men, on either a sexual or romantic level. He sighed, pouring more tea. This would be difficult, Mycroft acknowledged. More difficult than he’d anticipated, though he hadn’t even admitted to himself that he might be considering looking. The app was showing him men within a reasonable radius of his location, which he’d falsified as being several miles north of his actual location. And he’d set an age range as was recommended, plus with his actual preferences included, the app would have its best possible functionality.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to explain his lack of interest. Surely, if he belonged here he would show some kind of interesting in _somebody?_ Scrolling past, Mycroft stared to accept the idea that this would not actually be a very good-

“Oh.”

He heard the sound; it ejected itself from his throat without a single moment of thought. Thank God his hand had frozen before he could scroll past. Carefully, he placed the phone on his desk, taking a moment to look at the face showing on his screen.

It was the first flicker of interest he’d show in anyone in over two decades. The man was silver haired; his smile was easy and he held a pint of beer.

Even more startling, it was familiar.

_I’d like to sit beside him._

The idea was sudden and powerful, and Mycroft examined it carefully, still staring at the picture, trying to look through new eyes. The man’s face was interesting; his eyes appeared kind. There was plenty to deduce, which Mycroft deliberately ignored. If he was to embark on a relationship of any kind, he should start without that particular advantage.

Carefully, Mycroft pressed the photograph icon. Detective Inspector Lestrade had uploaded several photos. He was conventionally handsome, Mycroft had always seen that, but beyond that he was…attractive. Mycroft had felt the pull towards him often, but had always considered it gratitude for the kindnesses shown his brother. Had he even considered a relationship independent of that, Mycroft would have expected Gregory to want a sexual element. But if he was here…Mycroft looked more carefully at the images in front of him. There was something about him that made Mycroft want to be close. Spend time with him. Learn if those fingers felt comforting wound in his own. See how he felt about hugging, perhaps.

Mycroft had no idea what it was that made Gregory different to other people, but he was definitely curious enough to read the short biography.

_Pretty new to the ace scene. Plenty of dating out in the wider world but I’d like to get to know someone without the pressure. I’m employed full time, follow the football (go Arsenal!) and like spending time with my family. I like to cook and my idea of a good night is a quiet one in with a movie and cuddles on the sofa. I value honesty, a sense of humour and patience. Monogamy only._

Mycroft swallowed. _Without the pressure._ The meaning was clear, to him at least. And honestly, it sounded…interesting. Intriguing. As for the rest, it sounded like he was experienced with writing these kinds of things, far more than Mycroft was. The idea of meeting with someone without having to explain everything was certainly tempting. Especially someone with whom he already had a connection.

He wondered if Gregory had already formed an opinion of him. The idea was unsettling, and Mycroft wondered if he should add a photograph of himself. The security protocols wouldn’t allow him to actually do so, but he could perhaps add some details to his biography. Something that would indicate to a trained Detective that the lack of photo might not prevent him from recognising Michael Hornes.

With the care of someone unfamiliar with his tools, Mycroft took a screenshot of each of Gregory’s pictures and emailed them to one of his anonymous email addresses. He included the details, too. Might be worth it for research purposes, he told himself. For now, Mycroft hesitated before swiping Gregory to the left.

It wouldn’t matter, of course. Not unless Gregory swiped left on him, too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I've had such a beautiful response about this story, thank you. I'm so looking forward to exploring this with Greg and Mycroft and everyone along for the ride.

_Holy shit._

Greg stared at his phone. He’d paid for the upgrade within a day, quickly realising the app would simply throw every person that fit your criteria at you unless you could narrow it down. As such, he wanted to see the people who’d swiped on him first.

He didn’t really think there would be so many. It had taken a week or so to work through them, his brain still adjusting to this new world view. At least he’d done dating apps for a while, so he knew how to do this part, at least. This part was the same.

Experience came to the fore now. He sorted through the frankly embarrassing number, discarding those that had no bio, were incredibly rude or otherwise irritating. Whether he was looking for sex or not, putting up with someone who thought Ricky Gervais wasn’t funny was out of the question. On his second pass, Greg generally discarded those without pictures or that he didn’t think he’d gel with. The rest he’d send a message and see what happened.

Greg hesitated when he came to Michael. The name itself wasn’t enough to make him reject the man; the lack of photo almost made him do so, but a phrase in his bio caught Greg’s eye and his finger froze over the ‘accept/reject’ icons.

_…minor government official._

Why was that familiar? Long ago Greg had learned to trust his instincts and now he expanded the bio so he could read it properly.

_Greetings to you. I am quite new to this idea of dating in such a manner. I am gainfully employed as a minor government official, a position which allows me to indulge my interest in well-tailored suits and umbrellas. I work long days, but in my personal hours I prefer quiet evenings with a book and a glass of Scotch. I would be pleased to have a companion in my endeavours. Only those with sincere intentions need make contact. – MH_

Greg blinked. The language was practically archaic, yet when he heard it in his head, it was also kind of…familiar. Scrolling, he read through the rest of the information Michael had provided. _Height 6”1’; hair redder than I would care to admit; eyes grey; body type slim; drinks regularly; smokes occasionally; children none._

Greg blinked. He read the bio again, and this time there was a name to put to the voice reading it in his head.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

Michael.

Signed off with MH.

_Mycroft Holmes._

It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

Then something else occurred to him. If he recognised Mycroft from this cryptic, photo-less profile, there was no way Mycroft hadn’t recognised him from his entirely-not-cryptic, abundantly photo’ed profile.

And he’d swiped left.

Not only that, when Greg read the profile again, this time with a good dose of narcissism in the mix, he could see a bunch of details that might seem weird to anyone else but would only confirm that this was, in fact Mycroft Holmes.

Just in case a Detective Inspector that kind-of knew him happened to be reading it with an already slightly suspicious mind.

_Woah._

Was this Mycroft coming onto him? Well, in a non-sexual way, of course. It was hard not to use the kind of language he’d always used. Carefully, Greg rephrased himself.

Was this Mycroft expressing interest?

It must be. Mustn’t it?

But if he was on Ace, and he saw Greg’s profile, that meant that he was ace. Well, maybe not precisely ace, not the way Greg was. Not necessarily. But something…Greg didn’t have the vocabulary, but something that might gel with him. And he was interested in relationships with men.

Greg shook his head. There was only one way forward from here.

With a thumping heart, he considered his words. Should he go for a classic? Or try for something clever? God knew Mycroft was clever. Well, in his professional life he was. Greg had no idea what he was like personally. Not really. Not like this.

_Go with what you know. Just be you._

Greg nodded to himself. It was a relief, knowing he wouldn’t be expected to flirt, to pretend to be playing it cool when he actually did want to get to know someone. It helped the words come easier, actually.

_Hi, I’m Greg. I think we might get along well. Perhaps we could meet for a coffee. I’m based in central London. Free most weekends. Let me know if that sounds good to you. Cheers, Greg._

Nothing fancy. Just one man reaching out to another. He knew sometimes someone swiped the wrong way, and Greg would bet Mycroft was very new at this. There was nothing more excruciating than getting an overenthusiastic message from someone you weren’t actually all that interested in. He could only hope Mycroft wanted to reach back. Hesitating, Greg turned on notifications for the app. It couldn’t hurt to know if someone connected. Or replied to his message. Or whatever.

Tossing his phone onto the sofa beside him, Greg stretched. He really should make something to eat. Work wasn’t too bad right now – he was as superstitious as most coppers and wouldn’t even think the words _not busy_ lest half a dozen potential murderers find their resolve on his patch. But he was home early enough to consider cooking properly, and if he was motivated enough he could make up a big dish of cannelloni, enough to last him through the weekend, perhaps.

Checking in with himself, Greg found to his surprise he felt quite okay. Humming tunelessly as he opened a beer and grabbed the fresh pasta sheets from the fridge Greg realised the realisation about himself had been less traumatic than he thought it would be. True, it was a couple of weeks ago now, but they hadn’t been terrible weeks. That first Monday at work he’d been tense, wondering if anyone could tell what had happened, but of course nobody could. He was still just the boss, ‘sir’ to the more junior members of his team, ‘boss’ to Sally and the other new DI he was supervising.

By the end of that week, he’d relaxed more, and then a little more as the days progressed, though he turned down a night at the pub in favour of this evening at home. He figured he still needed some time to get used to himself before he headed out socially. Pub nights could get pretty raucous, and the last thing he wanted was to be drawn into the uncomfortable ‘who would you do’ game they so often ended up playing.

Now that he knew why it was uncomfortable, apart from the obvious objectification of strangers, Greg was going to pass. He’d have to join them again at some point, but he could see himself leaving earlier to avoid the messy end of the night that everyone regretted anyway. He couldn’t see himself confiding in anyone yet, but it was like he’d given himself permission not to take part in that kind of conversation.

He had nothing to prove to himself anymore.

Greg paused, hand automatically still stirring the spinach he was wilting in a pan. Each time he realised another small thing he wouldn’t have to lie about anymore, the tears threatened. Not at work, he was too focussed there. But sometimes on the tube, or yesterday in Tesco when he smiled politely and turned away from the pretty blonde clearly interested in more than the apples he was standing in front of. It was flattering, but there was no guilt in gently refusing to engage in flirting with her.

Now Mycroft, he thought as he mixed the spinach through ricotta, the garlic and roasted tomatoes from last night a heady aroma. That would be something entirely different. They’d connected on an ace dating app, for one thing, so no need for any kind of awkward conversation. Greg didn’t even know how you’d go about explaining that to someone. Did people know what ‘ace’ meant? Or did they think they knew, but didn’t? He remembered when he was younger trying to explain what ‘bisexual’ meant to his parents. That had gone down like a lead balloon, and he was pretty sure his dad heard ‘gay’ and nothing further.

When the cannelloni mixture was seasoned and ready to go, Greg turned his attention to getting everything set up. Once he was spreading and rolling and nestling each rolled tube beside each other in the baking dish, his mind could wander again. Without hesitation, it wandered right to Mycroft. He was an intriguing person, that much was not in question. Greg had wondered what Mycroft was like in his personal life. Was he really comfortable in those suits? Surely it was an affectation, a part of the image of the ‘minor government official’. Now, thinking about Mycroft as someone different, as Greg himself was, he wondered if the suit was more of a protective thing. Something behind which he could hide, sort of.

Sliding the baking dish into the oven, Greg cleaned up the kitchen, decided against another beer in favour of water, and sat at the table, playing with the label on the empty beer bottle. All his wondering about Mycroft might not even matter. If he didn’t get a reply, he could just pretend it had never happened. The idea made him frown. He was interested in getting to know Mycroft. He’d always assumed it would be a non-starter, given Mycroft’s frankly intimidating façade, but now he also accepted that for all his interest in Mycroft, he didn’t actually want to have sex with him.

He was coming to realise that was what he’d been taught. You could only want a relationship with someone if that relationship included sex. Actually it was often the other way around. If you wanted sex – and that was the first thing someone noticed, right, the desire for sex with someone – the relationship was the cost of that. You’d have to do the relationship if you wanted sex.

Nobody ever told him they could be entirely separate. He huffed a laugh to himself, alone in his kitchen as the smell of melting cheese and tomatoes began to fil the air. He could be interested in Mycroft, want to be close to him and get to know him without wanting to have sex necessarily.

He was allowed to.

A bark of laughter escaped. Allowed to. It was so strange that permission was something he still needed. Sitting alone in his flat, a senior DI for Scotland Yard and with the age to accompany the grey hair he’d borne for many years already, and relief still flowed through him at the idea of _being allowed_ to fancy someone in a certain way. Christ, the world could be a fucked up place sometimes. Wait, was it ‘fancying’ someone if you didn’t want to have sex with them?

He was still half smiling to himself at the ridiculousness of the question when his phone buzzed. Dinner would still be a little while away so he picked it up off the sofa, flicking the screen on without really paying attention.

_Ace TM_

_Michael has replied to your comment!_

Greg stared at the notification, resisting the urge to drop his phone like a poisonous snake. Michael had replied. Mycroft had…but he didn’t even know if it was Mycroft yet. True, the evidence was compelling, but there was no proof. Not yet. Shaking the paralysis off, Greg tapped the notification, opening the conversation with Michael.

_Good evening. I am also based in central London. Might I suggest a time this coming weekend? If you are familiar with the Wandsworth Museum, we might meet there with a view to walking along the Wandle Trail. Perhaps 2pm Saturday would suit. – MH_

Greg swallowed. There was nothing there that specifically hinted at Michael being Mycroft. He wondered if he should say something – but what? And what if he was wrong? No, he’d have to leave it to Michael/Mycroft to confess. They’d recognise each other at the museum, anyway. Well, he’d be recognisable – he still didn’t have a picture of this bloke. Actually, that could be an idea…

_Sounds good. You’ll recognise me from my photo. Can I ask you to send me one of you so I know who I’m looking for?_

Heart pounding, Greg sent it, then immediately Googled the Wandsworth Museum. He knew the rough area, of course, but not the specific building. It looked like the Wandle Trail followed the River Wandle all the way to Croydon. They wouldn’t walk that far, of course. And he’d bet money Mycroft had never walked along a river trail in his life. He might be choosing somewhere discreet, then. Made sense. They’d be in public, but not somewhere they’d be overheard. Or probably even spotted together.

_He’s probably as nervous as you about doing this._

Greg was still staring at the screen when he realised he was smelling his dinner. Christ, how long had it been in the oven? Long enough, that was for sure. Abandoning his phone he rescued the cannelloni, sliding the dish onto the stove. Good thing he liked it well done. Another five minutes and it would have been for the bin. He’d only just served himself when his phone buzzed again. He sat down with his meal before reading the screen.

_Ace TM_

_Michael has replied to your comment!_

Heart pounding again, Greg opened their conversation again. Would there be a photo? Or would Mycroft explain with simply a photo, letting that speak for him?

_Sending images electronically is inadvisable to someone in my position. I must however make a confession that I believe you will recognise me, as I recognised you from your photos. My name is not Michael. It is Mycroft. If you would prefer to cancel our appointment I will understand and we shall say no more on the matter. – MH_

Greg blew out a breath. Here it was. Michael was Mycroft. And from the sound of it, an insecure one. Greg replied immediately.

_I’d ask if you’re the Mycroft I think you are but we both know it’s unlikely I know more than one. I’d still like to meet on Saturday if that’s alright with you._

Greg hesitated, wondering how open he should be, exactly.

_If nothing else, it might be good to have a conversation with someone that gets where I’m at. I’ve only really just found out about the ace community and stuff. So even if it’s just a walk and a coffee, that’s okay. Does that sound alright to you?_

Without thinking it over too much, he pressed send. He didn’t even bother closing the app; from the sound of it, Mycroft was available for this conversation so with any luck he’d respond fairly soon.

It was less than ten minutes, according to the timestamps, though Greg had glanced over at least a dozen times as he waited, absently eating as he waited.

_Certainly. I will preface our meeting by admitting that I too have little experience in this community. I don’t know that I will be a wealth of information. I look forward to seeing you on Saturday. – Mycroft_

Okay. So they were doing this. And it sounded like they were on a similar page. Greg breathed deeply. Only two days, and he’d have a date. A date? Jesus, it was a date. The thought curled through his brain as he cleaned up, covering the left over cannelloni before slipping it into the fridge.

A date. A date he was actually looking forward to. One where he wouldn’t have to pretend to be anything.

As he started brushing his teeth, two tears slid down his cheeks. He didn’t brush them away.

How would it even be, a date where he wouldn’t have to pretend? Jesus, would he and Mycroft have to talk about what they wanted? Where they saw themselves on the scale? Greg paused, toothpaste foam threatening to spill from his mouth as he looked at himself in the mirror. No. Surely even an asexual first date would be more about getting to know someone. As a person. Just without the flirting. Or would there be flirting? Did flirting automatically mean sex? How did you let someone know you were interested if it wasn’t by flirting?

“Jesus,” Greg muttered to himself, wiping his mouth on the towel. He’d learned how to flirt by watching people, copying the moves that seemed to work, remembering the right actions and reactions like a dance sequence. It certainly hadn’t come naturally to him, but he understood the language. Well, kind of. He knew how to do it, at least.

But he had no idea how to _not_ do it.

This could be a disaster.

The thought was frightening, but he drew a deep breath and forced himself to consider an alternative.

It could also be the start of something. Even if things with Mycroft didn’t work out, it was the first time he was going to talk with someone who knew this about him, with the exception of Tom. Hell, he hadn’t even been sitting with this knowledge himself for all that long. There had been so many years he’d not been able to face it, though, and if he was being honest with himself, Greg was encouraged by Tom. The barman had been so casually accepting, even when Greg didn’t have the right words. That one person who didn’t think he was weird, or frigid, or any of the other words he’d had thrown at him over the years was enough to get him started. Words he’d thought about himself, worried about himself late at night when everyone he knew seemed to want nothing more than a fuck and he had no idea why he didn’t.

Mycroft had said he was new to this too. That actually made Greg feel a bit better. Even if they didn’t end up in a relationship, maybe quiet drinks every now and then might be something they could do. Just to share this part of themselves, even if they never decided to tell the rest of the world. One person at a time wasn’t too bad. Rolling over, Greg felt himself begin to drift off to sleep. One last thought resolved itself before he drifted off.

_I hope I don’t fuck this up._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, Mycroft is wearing [this colour suit](https://www.planetclaire.tv/quotes/sherlock/mycroft-holmes/series-three/), originally seen in the Christmas scene.

The tie was probably too much, but Mycroft couldn’t imagine himself being comfortable without it. Indecisive fingers pressed against the knot. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out in public without a tie. The symbolism of his carefully crafted image was not lost on him as he examined his reflection. It had certainly been pointed out by his brother and more than one angry subordinate over the years.

_Armour._

Today at least, there was no waistcoat to match his tweed suit. The suit was markedly less formal than his work attire, but he was still not sure it was…right. How on earth was one supposed to dress for a date? He was hardly an expert in such a field and there was nobody from whom he could ask advice. Not in this.

The very concept of a date was still reconciling itself in his mind.

As he straightened his tie with shaking fingers, Mycroft remembered the conversation responsible for his current state. His terror at the first carefully crafted message.

The rush of courage that empowered him to pressed send.

His despair when no answer came.

The incredulity that shot through him when Gregory not only replied, but accepted his true identity without pause.

Two almost sleepless nights until he’d woken this morning, the knowledge of his plans pulsing in him bright like the sun. The work to which he’d tried to apply himself this morning had been completed to such a poor standard it had been abandoned. If he could not translate a simple document from Greek to Arabic without making elementary mistakes, what was the point of continuing? He’d made the documents safe before looking for something else to do, but nothing captured his attention.

Mycroft roamed restlessly around his flat for hours until it was time to prepare himself. His mind considered much of his wardrobe as he showered and shaved, debating the pros and cons of each. The more formal suits were not an option, of course, and he dismissed most of what he would have chosen for a work as well. Which left a very small selection, mostly tweed, mostly purchased for the sole purpose of Christmas at his parent’s house.

Despite the reduce number of options it took the better part of an hour for Mycroft to select a suit. It was greyish-green, an in-between colour that frustratingly defied description but complimented his pale skin. Such a long process had been exhausting, not to mention taking far longer than he’d allowed, so a white shirt and maroon tie were enough to complete the outfit without too much thought. At least he had decent boots; the trail was graded but not sealed, and he had no idea how wet it might be.

His driver was on time, of course, and with a final check of the weather picked up his umbrella and made his way to the car. There was no chance of rain but without his umbrella he was always at a loss of what to do with his hands. Besides, the weather forecast in London was notoriously inaccurate. He knew his fingers were clenching and unclenching around the handle as the car drew closer to their appointed meeting place, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was comforting, though he’d never admit it to anyone. The shape was familiar, especially this umbrella, his favourite.

Comforting as it was, it couldn’t stop his car eventually arriving at the Wandsworth Museum.

Mycroft swallowed. As far as he could see Gregory was not waiting for him, so he had avoided the embarrassment of keeping his date waiting, at least. His gaze lingered on a family; the small boy’s red jacket was vibrant against the grey stone.

_Oh God, what am I doing?_

He didn’t belong here. Waiting for a date, of all things. The evening Gregory had responded to his message was a particularly low one. Another long week with newly elected leaders, unoriginal in their solid belief in their own power. It drained him to patiently explain how things actually were. It had been a close thing; he’d almost been forced to demonstrate his power. Such a tedious occurrence and God only knew as soon as this assortment was out they would be replaced with another, as clueless about how power really worked as the previous.

That night Mycroft was considering removing his profile from the ridiculous application. The burner phone sat on the side table and he was eyeing it, sipping from his second glass of Scotch for the evening. Gregory had not responded, and the longer he waited the more unlikely it was that he would do so. As he raised his glass only to find it disappointingly empty, Mycroft sighed. He should have something to eat; even expensive Scotch wasn’t enough to stop a splitting headache tomorrow if he didn’t eat.

The possibility of having something delivered was tempting, though he knew there were complete and nutritionally balanced meals waiting for him in the refrigerator. None had the appeal of a curry from his local Indian, though. They also lacked the cream and roti on the side, he thought with a sigh. Nothing would make him attractive, but he could at least demonstrate his self-control by keeping his weight at an acceptable level.

The single ping of the phone rang in the air, stopping him as he walked across the living room towards the kitchen. It rang through the air, and as it faded Mycroft turned his fingers clenched a little on the glass still held in his fingertips. The screen was lit up and from where he stood he could see the notification bar across the middle. Hesitantly, he walked back, picking up the phone and automatically turning it so he could read the notification.

_Ace TM_

_You have made a match!_

Mycroft felt himself mouthing the words, their sound buzzing in his head. Before he could move, another notification came up above the first.

_Ace TM_

_Greg has started a conversation!_

Barely breathing, Mycroft opened the app, blinking as he saw the two profiles at the top of the screen. A green speech bubble appeared, Gregory’s words waiting patiently until his brain could comprehend.

_Hi, I’m Greg. I think we might get along well. Perhaps we could meet for a coffee. I’m based in central London. Free most weekends. Let me know if that sounds good to you. Cheers, Greg._

Greg.

Gregory Lestrade was contacting him. Suggesting a coffee, of all things. Mycroft eased himself down onto the sofa again, wondering how to reply. He must reply. That was not in question; there was no way he could let this opportunity slide. Even if…

Oh.

Gregory did not know he was talking to Mycroft. He thought it was Michael on the other end of the conversation. Or did he? Mycroft’s carefully crafted profile contained several clues to his true identity; would Gregory have picked up on them? There was no denying that was the intention. Or did Gregory genuinely think it would be worth meeting the slightly odd person who liked umbrellas and Scotch?

Either way, he must respond.

Carefully, he tapped the response bar. When the keyboard appeared, Mycroft stared at it as though it was an entirely new concept.

_Good evening._

That part was easy. He re-read Gregory’s response again. It was easy and open, exactly as Mycroft knew Gregory was in real life. He hadn’t actually suggested a date; it was clever, Mycroft had to admit, offering a general period in which he was available without putting a time frame on their meeting. Maybe that was a point to begin, then. After his harrowing week, Mycroft knew he could simply tell his office he was unavailable for a few hours. Anthea was quite insistent that he should be taking more personal time, and she was more than capable of taking care of all but the most serious situations.

_I am also based in central London. Might I suggest a time this coming weekend?_

And now the difficult part – what to suggest? Anything romantic, trite or otherwise suggestive was out, naturally. As was anything in which they could not talk – so movies, theatre, opera were out too. Additionally, he to take into consideration what Gregory might want to do. Security was always a factor, as was the general population that might be close. He had no idea what people spoke about on a date, and certainly not an ace date.

Mycroft bit his lower lip, pulling up a map of London. The weather this weekend was forecast to be acceptable. Perhaps something outdoors? A walk somewhere. He discarded the obvious suggestions closer to central London ( _Too many people, too likely we might run into someone we know_ ), before resorting to the solution of the masses.

Google told him ‘popular walks London’ included several trails of which he had never heard. Examining each, Mycroft tentatively chose to look more closely at the Wandle Trail. The River Wandle apparently ran south from the Thames at Wandsworth. Sufficiently far from central London that they would be unlikely to meet anyone they knew, and from what he could see, there were several small shops along the way at which they might stop for a coffee or turn around. _Or cut our losses should it be a complete disaster._

Heart pounding, Mycroft crafted the rest of his message, looking at it critically before he pressed send.

_Good evening. I am also based in central London. Might I suggest a time this coming weekend? If you are familiar with the Wandsworth Museum, we might meet there with a view to walking along the Wandle Trail. Perhaps 2pm Saturday would suit. – MH_

He put the phone down, resolutely taking grilled chicken with steamed vegetables out of the refrigerator. The microwave had barely started humming when the phone pinged again.

_He can’t have responded already._

_Ace TM_

_Greg has replied to your comment!_

Swallowing, Mycroft read the message. His heart rose when he understood Gregory wanted to meet him, then plummeted south as he realised he still had not admitted who he actually was. It was difficult to believe things had begun so quickly and now they would surely end. There was no way Gregory would be interested in meeting with him once he knew it was Mycroft, not Michael, but he couldn’t leave Gregory without an answer.

The words were difficult to find, and he closed his eyes when he sent them out. No explanation, of course, and with any luck they would not cross paths for a while. It would allow time to blur the sharp humiliation of this moment, and perhaps they could then move forward, in a professional capacity…

_Ace TM_

_Greg has replied to your comment!_

Mycroft knew his jaw dropped when he saw the response. He wondered immediately if Gregory had worked it out before this message. It was clever of him not to ask, Mycroft thought. Perhaps his carefully crafted profile had caught Gregory’s attention, after all.

He replied with less apprehension this time, feeling daring as he added the last sentence.

_I look forward to seeing you on Saturday. – Mycroft_

And now he was here, five minutes early, watching as the small boy in the red coat took his father’s hand and walked into the museum.

With a deep breath, Mycroft gripped his umbrella, opened the door and stepped out. The air was cool, and as his car pulled smoothly away from the curb, he realised he should have brought a heavier coat. There was no turning back, however; he was here, and any moment Gregory would arrive.

The thought made his stomach roil. Intellectually he knew the lunch he’d eaten was necessary, but the idea of losing it right here was unappealing, to say the least.

“Mycroft?”

He turned, startled, which was ridiculous. Gregory stood before him, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, dark scarf disappearing beneath the half-drawn zip. He was broadcasting his nervousness and somehow their shared discomfort made Mycroft feel better. He drew a deep breath, regripped his umbrella in both hands, and replied.

“Good afternoon.” _Smile, Mycroft._ “Thank you for meeting me.”

“That’s what I was going to say,” Greg replied with a self-conscious smile. They stood awkwardly for a few seconds before he asked, “So, do you know where the start of the trail is from here?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “This way.”

“Wasn’t sure what might be the right thing to wear,” Greg said, looking down himself. “I mean, first date, but walking path, which is a great suggestion by the way.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said as they passed the rough brick of the Museum. “I was uncertain what might constitute an acceptable activity.”

“It’s a tough one,” Greg agreed. His quick glance coincided with Mycroft’s, and he said in a rush, “Especially since we’re not really going for…you know. Romance.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said. He didn’t want to start a debate regarding romance versus sex; that could keep for the moment. Best see how they held a conversation before beginning a difficult discussion. There was an element of surreality to this experience and he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to return fully yet. He cleared his throat. “You look fine. Assuming you’re warm enough.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. He tugged his leather jacket around him. “Can’t go wrong with jeans, I figured, and this jacket’s always warm.”

“You’ve had it a while,” Mycroft noted. He could tell fairly accurately, of course, but deliberately kept the comment vague, inviting Gregory to explain.

“Fifteen years,” Greg said. “First thing I bought with a proper paycheck, when I moved up from DC to DS.”

Mycroft nodded. “It suits you,” he said. The compliment sat awkwardly in his mouth, but it was true. He cleared his throat, glancing across the river as he waited for Gregory’s response.

“Thanks,” Greg replied easily. “I can’t tell but I’m guessing there’s a suit under that coat.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. He was trying to relax but it was difficult. He was fairly sure Greg wasn’t poking fun at his attire, but it was difficult to tell. “A country tweed. I generally only wear them to my parent’s home.”

“Let me guess,” Greg said. “A week at Christmas?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said in surprise. He risked looking over at Gregory, evaluating his expression.

“Sherlock’s never around between Christmas and New Years’,” Gregory grinned. “I’ve always assumed he disappears to the family pile somewhere.”

“He does,” Mycroft replied. Gregory was starting to look more relaxed, and nothing he was saying appeared to be derogatory, so he dared to add, “He likes to help my mother ice the gingerbread.”

“Does he?” Gregory looked delighted. “And he never mentioned it.”

Mycroft found a tentative smile to meet Gregory’s wide grin. “Not a detail he would be likely to share, I’m sure.”

They walked in silence for a few moments. Gregory’s easy manner slowly eased Mycroft’s tension as they walked past a rainbow of old brick buildings, the river flowing quietly beside them. His umbrella clicked quietly against the bitumen, marking each stride.

“I wonder what that is?” Gregory said, pointing to a converted warehouse. “I don’t know this area very well.”

“I couldn’t say,” Mycroft admitted. He’d left the analysis of the route to his security team, more worried about how he and Gregory would get along than the use of the buildings in the area. _Use his observation._ Taking a deep breath he suggested, “Perhaps we could cross the river to investigate?”

“Sure,” Gregory said. “Not as serious as my usual investigations.”

“My apologies,” Mycroft started, immediately berating himself for using that word. _Thoughtless._

“No, it’s fine,” Gregory said, turning to look at Mycroft. “Really. I was going to say it makes a nice change.”

Mycroft nodded, not entirely certain what was the right response. When they had crossed the river and stood in front of building he mused, “Some kind of industry, I believe.”

“Looks like it might have been a paper mill?” Gregory hazarded as they stood before the converted warehouse.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. There were clues of course but he kept his deductions to himself. He hesitated. “Shall we continue?”

“Yeah,” Gregory said, turning to cross back to the main path. “It’s nice this, walking along an area I don’t know much.”

Mycroft nodded. “That was a deciding factor in choosing this path,” he admitted. “Although walking for leisure is not my usual pastime.”

“No?” Gregory said. “What do you usually do?” He grinned. “Other than a book and a glass of Scotch.”

Mycroft considered the question. “I don’t have a lot of free time,” he admitted. He glanced at Gregory as they re-joined the path. “Though recently I have been considering a level of change.”

“You have?” Gregory asked.

Mycroft nodded, wondering how much he should share. The tone of the conversation would change depending on his answer. “As my time in my role continues,” he said carefully, “I increasingly notice a pattern to my work.”

“Right,” Gregory said cautiously. “And that’s a bad thing?” He hastened to add, “I know you can’t talk about it too much. But I’d like to understand. If you can tell me anything.”

Mycroft looked at him, the desire to deduce warring with his sense it was unseemly to do so socially. It would be so useful to have more knowledge of Gregory’s state of mind, but asking was certainly more acceptable. And Gregory was asking about him. About _him_ , not his work. In his experience people didn’t really want to know his motivations, especially not in a personal sense. But given how outside of his experience this day had been so far, perhaps...

Gregory looked sincere, so Mycroft drew a deep breath and answered as best he could. “My role is intended to be long term,” he said, careful to keep specifics out of it. “I find that as people come and go through certain critical roles, any progress made is negated with each replacement.” He paused, wondering if he’d made himself clear. “It is difficult to explain.”

They walked in silence, cyclists and other pedestrians passing in both directions. It was a long time since Mycroft had walked in such a public place, and never for recreational purposes. As he waited for Gregory to continue their conversation, Mycroft paid attention to his senses with an unusual concentration. The air was crisp with an occasional waft of aftershave. Bikes whirred past, runner’s feet hitting the ground in a regular rhythm. The water rippled under a gentle breeze.

_I never notice such details._

_It is not unpleasant._

_Especially with the given company._

“I think I understand,” Gregory said eventually. “Feels a bit like that at my job. Catch one bad guy and another takes their place.”

“Precisely,” Mycroft replied. He was surprised that Gregory had summarised it so succinctly. “A Sisyphean task.”

“The guy with the boulder?” Gregory asked.

“Just so,” Mycroft said. He hoped his voice had remained neutral, but Gregory’s expression made it clear it had not.

“No need to be surprised,” Gregory said with a grin. “My dad was big on mythology, but keeping the names straight was impossible.”

Mycroft winced. “It was not my intention to…”

“Don’t,” Gregory said, stopping to put his hand on Mycroft’s arm. “Seriously. It’s fine.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. “You’re being very kind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Wandle Trail is real; the general feel of it is as written, with some creative licence on the specifics.
> 
> Mycroft is referencing Sisyphus (or Sisyphos), the figure from Greek mythology condemned by Zeus to eternally roll a boulder uphill as punishment for his general trickery and deceitfulness. A Sisyphean Task is fruitless, endless; something to be repeated with little or no chance of success.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is following and commenting and otherwise appreciating this story. You fill my writer-y cup, each of you! It's lovely to have everyone on board as we help the boys navigate their developing relationship. <3

Now that things were going okay Greg knew he was more relaxed, but Mycroft’s posture was still telegraphing his nerves. There had been a couple of moments he’d thought Mycroft might bail on him, but to his relief they were still talking. The conversation so far had been light. It was more polite conversation than really getting to know someone, until the last few minutes, at least. They’d avoided a few darker conversational alleyways as they started out but Greg knew they couldn’t avoid more serious topics forever. Besides, wasn’t that the whole point? His stomach rolled over and he looked at Mycroft.

“D’you want to stop over there for a coffee?” Greg asked. There was a café on the other side of the river with outdoor seating. It would be cold, but they’d be able to sit away from other people and talk.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied.

Greg wondered if Mycroft could feel the anxiety building as they walked across the bridge, neither breaking their silence. He was certainly trying to work out if he should start a conversation about anything more personal, but reading Mycroft was near impossible. A chirpy young brunette took their order and Greg insisted on paying.

“Do you even carry cash?” Greg asked as they took the furthest table from the other patrons. It was quite nice, he thought, looking over the river. Mycroft hung his umbrella over the edge of the table before taking the seat beside Greg. _That’s a good sign._

“Rarely,” Mycroft replied, “though I noticed you paid with your card, so your point is moot.”

“True,” Greg said, grinning. Mycroft’s smile was tentative, but it was still a welcome sight. “Does anyone, anymore?”

“It is certainly less common than it once was,” Mycroft agreed. He seemed to make a conscious decision to add, “Electronic transfer is more convenient when moving between countries.”

“I’m sure it is,” Greg replied. It was slow, but Mycroft seemed to be relaxing just a little more. The extra droplets of information were fascinating, and Greg was holding in a whole lot of questions for later. Assuming that there was a later. He was certainly more hopeful now.

“So do you travel a lot?” He grinned, hoping to cover his awkwardness about what it was Mycroft actually _did_. “Let me know if I cross any boundaries, asking about work. Or anything else, for that matter.”

Mycroft looked at him consideringly for a moment, and Greg wondered if he’d managed to cross a boundary while assuring him he wasn’t trying to cross a boundary. After so much careful skirting around difficult topics, that would be ironic.

“You are remarkably considerate,” Mycroft said quietly. He opened his mouth but closed it again.

_What were you going to say?_

“What were you going to say?” Greg asked. He saw Mycroft’s expression shift so he added, “I want to know. If you want to tell me.”

Their coffee arrived, and Greg could see Mycroft taking the moment of adding sugar and stirring to line up his thoughts.

“I was wondering,” Mycroft said, addressing his coffee, “if your tendency to worry about how your words will be interpreted is due to,” he paused, “offence caused in previous relationships.”

Greg blinked. That was not what he’d expected at all. But they were clearly going to talk about their pasts. Well, depending on how he responded now. He swallowed. Nervous though he was to go down that path, there was no point coming on a date and only making small talk. They were sitting here together, in a part of the city with which neither was familiar, as far from other patrons as physically possible, so why not?

Other than all the reasons he could think of.

“Maybe,” Greg said eventually. He licked the froth off his spoon and placed it on his saucer. “Past relationships probably aren’t a great place to look at how well I relate to people.”

Mycroft blinked. “Indeed?” he said cautiously, looking over the rim of his glass. “You appear to be comfortable interacting with others.”

Greg nodded. “I do,” he said. “But you’ve only seen me at work. I mean, professionally isn’t the same, you know?”

“I do,” Mycroft replied immediately. “Professional relations are far more predictable.”

“Yep,” Greg said, a tiny flicker of warmth blooming in his belly at their shared experience. He took a deep breath. “I get along well with my family too. I think it’s because I know where I stand with them, you know?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Though I can’t say my family and I get along particularly well.”

“Christmas not easy?” Greg asked sympathetically.

“It is not my favourite time of year,” Mycroft said. Another pause (Greg was beginning to learn to leave a space here in case Mycroft wanted to add something else), and he added, “My parents have a long running concern about my marital status.”

“Right,” Greg replied. Finally they were finding common ground, though hardly fun. “Mine too.”

“But you were married,” Mycroft said, a frown creasing between his eyebrows.

“Emphasis on the past tense,” Greg said. “Although to be fair, one Christmas I was seeing someone, the next I was married to someone else. They were never really keen on Gloria, to be honest. Not that she made much of an effort.” Greg pressed his lips together. Extolling his ex-wife’s failings was hardly first date conversation.

“Was their objection to your wife specifically?” Mycroft asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Of course I don’t,” Greg said. He’d never really considered it from that perspective. “They were happy I was married, I think. But not to Gloria. I mean, we never really synced all that well.” He shrugged, not really wanting to go too deep right now.

Mycroft seemed to pick up on his discomfort, changing the focus a little. “Ah yes. The belief that marriage will fulfil one is prevalent in my family home, too.”

Greg nodded, grateful for the subtle help. “I don’t know if they’d be more disappointed if I never got married or that I got divorced.”

“I believe my parents may have given up,” Mycroft admitted. “Having never having seen any evidence of a personal relationship on my behalf.”

Greg nodded. “I brought a few home,” he said. The silence stretched out, and he wondered if Mycroft was providing him the same space he had been giving. _Considerate._ “I’ve had a few. Partners,” he said. “Girlfriends and boyfriends.”

Mycroft nodded. “I can’t say the same,” he said gravely. “There has certainly been nobody I have brought home.”

Greg nodded in return, wondering what that meant but leaving it. They were talking about the past, but it was still light, in a way. Each was offering, but neither asking; that trust would come with time. He hoped.

When Mycroft didn’t fill the silence, he said, “I don’t think I did a very good job at being a boyfriend,” he admitted. “Although I did…” he frowned, trying to figure out what he was trying to say, “I must have been alright at looking like I knew what I was doing.”

Mycroft nodded. “I never did learn that set of social cues,” he admitted.

Greg couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with someone. Someone that understood where he was coming from – an outsider to the mysterious world of which everyone else appeared to have an innate understanding.

“Took me ages to work it out,” Greg said. “Well, I don’t know if I was every really great at it.”

Mycroft nodded again. “If it wouldn’t be too personal,” he began, then paused. He picked up his coffee instead, the frown finally smoothing out as he looked up at Greg.

“That’s what I do,” Greg said with a smile. “Checking before I ask.”

“It is,” Mycroft replied, returning his smile.

“What did you want to ask?” Greg asked.

Mycroft drew a breath. “When did you realise…” he trailed off, the frown returning.

“That I’m ace?” Greg asked. The phrase felt awkward, and his face heated knowing the words were out there, even though Mycroft already knew this about him.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, looking away again. From his averted, skittish gaze, he was as uncomfortable with this as Greg.

_One of us has to go first._

“A few weeks?” Greg guessed. “Not long. A bartender said something, and it got me thinking.” He shrugged self-consciously. “I didn’t have the vocabulary, but Tom was great. I googled some stuff, read a lot, talked to Tom again.” Another shrug, another gaze steadily on his empty coffee cup. “It made sense.”

A deep breath, and Greg looked up, braced for Mycroft’s reaction. He was nodding, his eyes on Greg’s, expression calm.

“I came across the term in a work document,” Mycroft said quietly. “The first search gave me enough information to…wonder.”

Greg nodded. He could hear the boundaries in Mycroft’s voice so he stored the questions away for later. Well, most of them.

“Recently?” Greg asked tentatively.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. He didn’t offer anything else, and Greg didn’t want to push. Mycroft was still here, but there was a fine tension running under the surface of their conversation. Trust was not easily given, that much Greg already knew, but he was realising it was just as astonishing to Mycroft for someone to trust him with their inner thoughts, too.

_He really is inexperienced with people._

_God, it must be lonely._

The thought took Greg by surprise, and he felt a rush of empathy. He’d felt lonely dating people he didn’t really connect with, trying to fit into a world he knew wasn’t quite right for him. It wouldn’t have occurred to him that Mycroft was lonely too. Less with the random dates and more with the self-isolation, but the end result was the same.

_We’re so similar in that respect._

_I hope he wants to see me again._

“I must admit, I was surprised you were on a dating app,” Greg blurted, suddenly realising how long he’d been sitting in silence. He winced. “Sorry. You don’t need to justify that.”

To Greg’s immense surprise, Mycroft did make an attempt to explain. “I was surprised to find myself there. I believe I was so astounded to consider there would be enough people who wished to date in such a manner, my curiosity overtook me.”

Greg was going to nod, but his brain made a connection. “And you…Jesus, this sounds up myself, but did you swipe left on anyone else?”

It was Mycroft’s turn to look uncomfortable. “I admit I did not,” he said. He took a deep breath. “I created a profile with the intention of learning about the community. Reconnaissance, if you will.”

Greg nodded. He didn’t want to freak Mycroft out, but he still had questions, and Mycroft had answered them so far. “If you saw my profile,” he said carefully, “you must have set your preferences to be,” he paused looking for the right words, “well, to be something I’d match.” His face heated. “Not initially, I mean. But they showed you my profile. Just like my preferences were…something you matched.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, his pale skin turning pink as the conversation took a more personal turn. “My initial profile was truthful,” he said. “While I was unable to use my own name, it seemed prudent to set parameters as accurately as possible,” he added quietly. “A good lie incorporates the truth.”

“Okay,” Greg said. It was reassuring to hear Mycroft hadn’t swiped left on him for some obscure reason. He actually wanted this date. Well, Greg fit his general interests, at least. And he’d shown up. Two excellent points in favour of that theory.

“Since we’re talking about it, can I ask…did you change your profile after you swiped on me?” His coffee empty, he tucked his hands under his thighs, resisting the urge to cross his arms. Nothing said defensive like that kind of body language.

“I did,” Mycroft admitted. “I may have included…certain phrases I hoped might capture your interest.”

“No photo, though?” Greg asked.

“Not possible, I’m afraid,” Mycroft said. His smile was tentative and Greg’s heart squeezed as grey eyes met his. “I was not certain you would respond.”

“I almost didn’t,” Greg admitted. “Not because I didn’t want to,” he said quickly, “I just know from other apps that new profiles get a lot of attention. So I kind of waited a few days then dealt with them all at once.”

“All?” Mycroft echoed.

“Yeah,” Greg said self-consciously. “Hard won experience. Easier to wait a few days and weed out the weird ones all at once. I usually don’t bother replying if there’s not a photo, but I saw you’d written,” he frowned, trying to remember the exact wording, “‘minor government official,’ and it, I dunno, struck a chord.” He could hear himself sounding less confident, but he couldn’t help it. It sounded silly to say it out loud.

“As intended,” Mycroft replied. “Also the mention of the umbrella.”

“Of course,” Greg said. “And you signed it the same as your text messages.”

As he looked up, Greg caught the small smile on Mycroft’s face and the deeper pink on his cheeks. _He’s pleased I recognised the clues._

“I didn’t know for sure until you told me your name,” Greg said. He took a deep breath. Time to put his cards on the table. “But since we agreed to meet, I guess we can establish that we’re both interested in seeing where this could go.”

Mycroft’s smile faded, and he nodded gravely. “My experience with relationships is limited,” he said quietly.

“Mine isn’t,” Greg said, “but I think a lot of what I’ve learned might not apply here.”

Mycroft nodded again, and opened his mouth but glanced over the other occupied tables. “Shall we continue walking?” he asked.

“Sure,” Greg said. They were silent until they’d joined the path as it curved around an open park, the closest people a hundred metres across the field tossing a Frisbee back and forth. _I hope he feels more comfortable here._

“You meant specifically sex,” Mycroft said, his eyes still on the Frisbee.

“Mostly,” Greg said. He frowned. “I guess I don’t really know exactly how this works without it.”

“I have little experience myself,” Mycroft added. “As I mentioned, I will be a poor source of information regarding typical asexual relationships.”

Greg nodded. “When it comes to asexual relationships, we’re at the same point, at least.”

Mycroft nodded. “That is something.”

Greg felt himself nodding again. The conversation wasn’t exactly flowing but it was less awkward than he feared. They might actually have a shot if they could talk to each other.

_Keep the conversation going._

“From what I gathered, when I was reading,” he said, “it’s a pretty wide range of people who might use the term ace. Plus all the words on the app. I didn’t even know what half of them meant.”

His admission had precisely the desired effect; Mycroft looked at him, surprise and then relief showing on his face. “Nor I,” he murmured.

“And mostly, I haven’t ever,” Greg swallowed, the sudden emotion rising in his with this admission, “really had a relationship where I’ve thought about what I do want. In that respect.”

“Go on,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg drew a deep breath, trying to find the words to explain this thing he was still figuring out about himself. “I guess I’m saying I don’t quite know where the line is. For me. Other than, I mean,” he stopped, frustrated at his own lack of expression. This was new. The realisation about his right to choose, and express what he actually wanted when it came to the intimacy of a relationship. And Jesus, he was talking to a man who wouldn’t think it was weird or get offended if he didn’t want to…

“If I may,” Mycroft said carefully, interrupting the tailspin of thoughts crashing through Greg’s brain, “hazard a guess at what you are trying to express?”

“Yeah, please,” Greg said, taking a deep breath. “I’m clearly doing a lousy job of it.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied in earnest. He took a deep breath of his own. “From what I have read, an interest in romance might be considered separate from an interest in sex.”

Greg sat with that for a second. Romance separate from sex. Yes. He’d definitely read that too. And by bringing it up, Mycroft was extending their conversation. Trying to figure things out with Greg. He felt himself let go of some of the tension that had begun to build as his brain had taken off a moment earlier.

_We can do it together._

That one thought made him feel a lot better.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “That’s what I understand too.”

“Yet there is no clear distinction,” Mycroft said, his words considered. He was working through something as he spoke. “And given our mutual inexperience in this area, one might hesitate to express one’s desires for fear of repelling the interest of the other.”

Greg stopped, knowing his mouth was hanging open as he looked at Mycroft. It took a couple of extra paces before Mycroft stopped, but he looked back, eyebrows raised at Greg’s sudden halt. The rest of the world receded as Greg’s pulse sounded loud in his ears at the utter perfection of Mycroft’s phrasing.

_He reached into my head and understood exactly what I was worried about._

_Please, let him want to keep seeing me._

“Jesus, yes,” Greg said finally. “That’s exactly it.” He drew a deep breath and kept walking, waiting for Mycroft to join him. “I don’t know exactly where I am on this spectrum they reckon exists, and I don’t even know if there’s a word for whatever the hell I am. And that’s not taking into account where you are, or how you identify, or what you’re interested in.”

Mycroft nodded, clearly taking this conversation seriously. It made Greg’s racing heart ease, looking at the concentration on the other man’s face. It wasn’t silly to be worried about this. Clearly, Mycroft had wondered some of the same things, and he was willing to have a conversation about it without a thousand stupid euphemisms or whatever.

_We can be friends, at least. I can’t imagine a whole lot of people will know this about either of us. Even if nothing happens between us, we can be friends. I hope._

Greg pushed back the flare of hope. Disappointment was far too familiar, and it was just a first date, for goodness’ sake. He shouldn’t be letting himself get too carried away.

“Perhaps some of your previous relationship experience might be relevant, when applied appropriately,” Mycroft said.

“Okay,” Greg replied cautiously. Mycroft’s face was blank, and Greg could almost see him processing. He was happy to wait until Mycroft could put this new idea into order. He had no idea what Mycroft was thinking, only that he was.

“Extrapolating our current uncertainties onto what I understand are termed allosexual people,” Mycroft said cautiously, “I would therefore assume that for all those who experience sexual attraction, there is a range of…preferences.”

“Yeah,” Greg said automatically. “Wait, how do you mean?”

 _Is he talking about who he might want a relationship with?_ Greg’s heart pounded. He’d assumed if they were here, they were both interested in men – specifically each other.

“I am not referring to preferences in the gender of a partner,” Mycroft continued, and Greg relaxed a little. “I mean less definite things such as specific acts one does or does not enjoy, the frequency one would prefer to engage in such acts, the particular techniques one might employ…”

“Right,” Greg interrupted. “People who like sex like different kinds of sex.”

_He’s good at summarising this stuff._

“Precisely,” Mycroft said with a nervous glance. “So to paraphrase your statement, people who like romance must like different kinds of romance.”

“I see where you’re going,” Greg nodded. _Jesus, he’s smart._ “So I guess you’re saying however people negotiate their sexual preferences is probably applicable to asexual, romantic relationships, too.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said. “I believe it is worth considering, at any rate.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A two-chapter day! This is the end of their walk in the park conversation, so I wanted everyone to be able to read up to here before taking a moment to exhale. <3

Mycroft was anxious, watching Gregory’s face. This was an important conversation, of course, and from the intense, nervous expression in Gregory’s eyes, he felt it too. As far as Mycroft could tell they were on the same page as they tried to figure out how to potentially develop this relationship, but given his limited experience, he was relying on Gregory to confirm the hypothesis he was building.

_I will need to trust his judgement on this matter._

“Do you have an opinion on the matter?” Mycroft asked tentatively.

“I think that’s bloody brilliant,” Gregory said with an explosive breath out. “Although there’s not really one way to work that out, you know.”

“Surely there are some techniques which might be applied?” Mycroft asked. He had no idea how one negotiated a sexual relationship. His few fumbling attempts at university had been completely disastrous, and at no point had he been required to express a preference.

Gregory nodded, thinking. “Yeah,” he said slowly.

“Was there something inaccurate in my assessment?” Mycroft asked. He could see Gregory still thinking hard, and he hoped there wasn’t some fundamental element he’d missed or forgotten about.

“No,” Gregory said. He glanced at Mycroft. “I guess as I’m thinking about it, I’m realising I’m missing what you would call a key set of data.”

“You are?” Mycroft asked. “Might I ask what it is?”

Gregory glanced sideways, but it took a few seconds for him to answer. “Would you mind if I don’t right now? I kind of need to think about it a bit. Get it right up here first.” He tapped his temple.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied automatically, though his brain was immediately racing as he wondered what it might be.

“But I can say that the main thing any adult person in an adult relationship of any kind would tell you is most important,” Mycroft found himself holding his breath as he waited for Gregory to finish the sentence, “is communication.”

“Communication,” Mycroft repeated.

“Yeah,” Gregory said. “And you can extrapolate that to everything, from sex to anything else.”

“Very well,” Mycroft nodded.

They fell into silence for a short while, Mycroft taking Gregory’s words on board. It was a blindingly obvious statement, of course, but as he’d never considered how it might apply to a personal relationship, having confirmation was comforting. He would need to communicate with Gregory effectively. The same as work, in a way. Effective communication was key to any negotiation or other interaction in which he engaged.

“If I might ask,” Mycroft found himself saying, “I am aware that couples who know each other well often consider anticipating the other’s needs to be a desirable behaviour.” Gregory blinked, clearly not sure where he was going with that. Mycroft tried to clarify. “Would you consider that an accurate statement?”

“Well, yeah,” Gregory said. “It does depend on the situation, I guess.” He huffed a laugh and glanced at Mycroft. “I’m pretty sure being deduced isn’t something most people are fans of.”

“No,” Mycroft replied. He felt the ghost of his brother between them for a moment but brushed him away.

Gregory sighed. “I guess it’s the line between noticing and deducing,” he said. “I know Sherlock has no idea about the difference between what an average person might notice and what he notices. Well, what he figures out from what he notices.”

“He does not,” Mycroft agreed. Where was Gregory going with this? He could see Gregory’s mind still working, so he did not make further comment, instead waiting for him to continue.

“You know, you’re probably going to be better at spotting a pattern than I am,” Gregory said finally, glancing at Mycroft. “How about we say that generally I’d rather be asked about stuff, but if you’re deducing things so you can be nice, that’s okay?” He wrinkled his nose and met Mycroft’s eyes. “That sounds terrible. Does it make sense?”

“I believe so,” Mycroft said slowly. “I trust you will let me know should I overstep the boundaries.”

“Yeah,” Gregory said, and there was something uncomfortable in his expression, but Mycroft didn’t push it right now. “Does that sound like it might work for you, too?”

“It does,” Mycroft replied.

“Well you’ll have to let me know if I overstep, too,” Gregory said with a smile.

He was clearly uneasy, but Mycroft did not push. Glancing ahead, he could see they would have to cross a road, the first intersection the path had made since they began. “Might I suggest this would be a good place to turn around?”

“Yeah,” Gregory replied.

They did so, and for a while there was no talking between them. Mycroft thought it should have been more awkward, but Gregory appeared to be happy with their quiet state. It was certainly a good opportunity to reflect on their conversation. Mycroft couldn’t believe they had covered so much ground, conversationally speaking. He had a number of questions, including what the ‘missing data’ of which Gregory spoke actually encompassed. It was possible he could have deduced it, but apart from already having decided that was not appropriate, Gregory had made it clear he’d prefer not to be the subject of such attention.

It was a positive beginning, that much was certain. Though they may find themselves incompatible romantically at a later date, Mycroft was tentatively hopeful that they might remain intimate friends in the old fashioned sense of the word. Friends with an intimate knowledge of each other’s personal lives rather than the more vulgar meaning it had latterly taken on. It would be curious to have someone with such knowledge of his life. Perhaps they could explore the meaning of this newly discovered aspect of themselves in tandem. Mycroft doubted he would have the courage to date again, though Ace appeared to be a perfectly serviceable application to meet other people with similar preferences. From what he could see, Gregory was far more prepared to date. He had vastly more personal experience than Mycroft, and it was clear he sought a partner with significant determination.

_He is lonely._

Mycroft wasn’t sure it was a deduction; surely anyone with eyes would be able to see it. Gregory’s extensive dating history was an attempt to find someone with whom he could share his life. His failed marriage was an indication he believed he’d found it; from what Mycroft understood, it was a very quick turn from meeting to marriage, and not so long from there to the breakdown of their union. How difficult that must have been. And yet despite it, Gregory continued to make an effort to meet new people. A small part of Mycroft envied him that; the determination to continue to look, even though he’d not found what he was looking for.

_Desperation borne of loneliness._

It was not a happy thought. Somewhat inappropriately, Mycroft’s mind wandered to the intimate details of Gregory’s marriage. Was he prepared to engage in physical relations with his wife? Was he not, and that was her reason for looking elsewhere?

Unconsciously he glanced across only to find Gregory looking back at him.

“What?” Gregory said with a smile.

“I am enjoying walking with you,” Mycroft said. He had no idea where the words came from. They were true, but bore no resemblance to what had been in his mind when Gregory spoke.

“Me too,” Gregory replied after a beat. “I don’t usually just go for a walk, either.”

Mycroft nodded. “Far more agreeable with company,” he ventured.

“Yeah,” Gregory said. “I used to say I walk enough at work, but now I’m more likely to complain about the paperwork.”

“The irony of experience,” Mycroft replied. “Less time doing the job in which you earned it.”

“Exactly,” Gregory said. “Used to kick around a football most weekends, but I’m getting too old for that now. Knees don’t recover like they used to.”

Mycroft could see the lie in a dozen details, and he debated calling Gregory out, but let it stand instead. Whatever his reasons – and Mycroft suspected it was more to do with his self-consciousness about the inevitable softness around his middle – it was hardly consequential.

“I used to run,” Mycroft offered. It was strange, offering personal details. More unusual was his fragile understanding that Gregory actually welcomed such admissions.

“Really?” Gregory replied with interest. “What made you stop?”

“My schedule was unpredictable enough to make regular exercise impossible,” Mycroft replied.

“Would you want to get back to it?” Gregory asked. They were passing the café again, though neither said anything.

“I used to enjoy the solitude,” Mycroft said. “At the time I was working unspeakable hours, often with people I found…difficult. Running was an escape of sorts.”

“And now?” Gregory asked.

Mycroft noticed he didn’t preface the question with a disclaimer and rather than intrusive, it felt more natural. Perhaps his own willingness to open up was being noticed. Or Gregory knew Mycroft understood he was free to refuse to answer if he so wanted and didn’t want to interrupt the flow of their conversation with repetition.

_Considerate._

“Now,” Mycroft said, a smile tugging at his mouth, “I spend more time alone, completing endless paperwork. Something I feel you will empathise with.”

Gregory’s smile was wide and glorious, and Mycroft was suddenly returning it. He could feel his lips part as the shared amusement took over his expression.

“Well if you wanted a running partner,” Gregory said, “I could probably be persuaded.”

Mycroft nodded. His heart beat faster as he shaped his next phrase. “Please understand I am already skirting the edges of my commitment to keep Her Majesty’s work secret,” he said, “but as I have considered the alterations to my professional obligations, a regularity of hours is a priority.”

He knew it was a convoluted way of expressing himself, but Mycroft had no other way of speaking. Especially when he was doing more than skirting the edges of his commitment to the Official Secrets Act. He really shouldn’t be talking about work, not matter how obscure his references.

_Please understand what I’m saying._

“Okay,” Gregory said, and his expression shifted from the concentration Mycroft knew meant he was processing to an open, easy smile, “No problem. Murders aside, I keep a nine-to-five.” He grinned. “We could show off how woefully unfit we are together.”

Mycroft let out the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. “Certainly,” he said. “When negotiations are finalised you shall be the first to know their outcome.”

“Better get myself some decent running shoes then,” Gregory said. “I’ve seen you negotiate, I’ll bet you won’t be at it too long.”

“Alas, those opposing me are as skilled as I,” Mycroft replied.

“Really,” Gregory said, and the scepticism was dripping from his words.

“Perhaps I am a shade more experienced,” Mycroft allowed, the smile returning to his face. How long had it been since he’d smile so much? And so sincerely? Not only that, he was allowing Gregory to tease him, gentle though the barbs were.

“Well, I’ll still go out on Monday and get some,” Gregory said. “Hate to be caught unawares.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, making a mental note to do the same. He didn’t even know if he still had running shoes anywhere. Certainly none he could wear again after so long.

_I must arrange it today._

Gregory had made the suggestion they meet again; Mycroft felt it was not an overextension of his skills to determine the offer was genuine. And as uncomfortable as he might feel about making a social appointme- a _date_ , today had shown him how unfounded his fears might be. There was a whisper of possibility between them that they might be able to find an understanding as long as they were able to communicate.

The conversation drew back a little as they walked the last section of the path, neither wanting to start another deep conversation right now. Mycroft knew he had plenty to think about and he assumed Gregory felt the same. When they drew close to the Museum, Mycroft pulled out his phone and sent a message to his driver.

“Might I drop you at home?” he asked Gregory politely.

“Sure,” Gregory replied. “Thanks.”

They stood on the corner for a few minutes before Mycroft’s driver arrived and they slid into the backseat. Mycroft made sure to slide up the privacy screen; discreet as his staff were, this still felt too private to share.

“Thank you for your company today,” Mycroft said quietly as they crossed the river and headed towards Gregory’s flat.

“And you,” Gregory replied. He hesitated. “Murders aside, my weeks’ pretty clear next week. Do you want…maybe you could come over. I could cook. I can cook, actually.” His mouth was smiling but Mycroft could see the nervousness in his eyes as he waited for Mycroft’s reply.

_He wants to see me again._

“That would be lovely,” Mycroft said. “I will consult my diary and get back to you directly.”

“Great,” Gregory replied, leaning back with a not-quite concealed sigh of relief.

“I must warn you,” Mycroft said, knowing he was telegraphing his discomfort, “my schedule is still subject to sudden changes. It is something I am hoping to minimise in the future, however it may mean I have to postpone any…meetings we might arrange.” His heart was beating fast and he forced the next sentence out, meeting Gregory’s eyes despite his internal cringing. “Please do not interpret it as a lack of interest on my behalf.”

Gregory blinked, then glanced over his shoulder as the car slowed outside his building. “Of course,” he said simply. “You’re busy. I understand. If some idiot knifes his mate in a bar somewhere, I might be the one cancelling on you.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured. “I will be in touch regarding next week.”

“Sure,” Gregory said. “G’bye, Mycroft.”

“Good afternoon,” Mycroft replied, and when the car pulled away, he sank back into the seat with a sigh of his own.

_Well that was unexpected._


	7. Chapter 7

_Great. See you tonight, then. – Greg_

With a deep breath, Greg slid his phone back into his pocket. He wondered briefly if Mycroft’s meeting had been cancelled or if he’d cancelled it – a minor distinction, maybe, but an important one. Either way he’d called Greg, but one was a little more proactive than the other. They’d made plans twice already, though each of them had cancelled. Text messages in between had eased his nerves; they were both making the effort to keep in touch, so he didn’t feel like he was the only one beginning to feel invested in this. Even with a week and a half in between dates. _No need to rush things._

“Okay,” he said, glancing at his watch. “We’d better get going if we’re going to get out of here by six.”

“Out by six?” Sally echoed. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” Greg said. He’d need a bit of time to get to Tesco before having a quick shower and actually cooking. It was a little late to plan anything too fancy and he was already reminding himself Mycroft wouldn’t expect him to have had time to create a masterpiece.

“Hot date or something?” Sally asked with a grin.

“Something like that,” Greg replied evasively.

He braced for the inevitable sexual innuendo, but Sally just smiled at him, studying his expression for a moment.

“Glad to hear it,” she said finally. “Met someone online, then?”

“Yep,” Greg replied, tension melting from his shoulders. “Never would have admitted to it before now.”

“It’s the new normal,” Sally agreed. “Come on, if we can get this paperwork done, I’ll double check the evidence before we apply for the warrant tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Greg said. That would make it far more likely he’d get away on time, so he bent his head to the task and concentrated.

When six o’clock rolled around, Greg groaned. Two mistakes in the paperwork had already set them back, and he had to stay to sign the forms before he left.

Sally looked over as she heard him, before glancing at her watch.

“You trust me, boss?” she said.

“What?” he said, distracted.

“Sign these, I’ll finish them right now,” she said, thrusting the papers at him. “Only take me half an hour. Promise I won’t say we’re looking for Mickey Mouse or anything.”

Greg hesitated. Technically he wasn’t meant to sign anything incomplete; if anyone did add something stupid – or wrong – it would be on his head. But Sally was trustworthy, and dammit, he was actually looking forward to this date tonight.

“Thanks, Sal,” he said, scrawling his name across the bottom of the pages. “I owe you.”

“Yes you do,” she said calmly. “Get out of here, would you?”

Greg grinned, hauled his coat off the coatrack and headed out.

An hour later he was stepping out of the shower, feeling a thousand times better for the shave and wash. He was nervous again; the buttons on his shirt were more difficult to close, though it might have been his fingers fumbling instead. Hair done, clothes right, and he stepped into the sitting room. Thank God he’d thought to spend Sunday cleaning, not sure when he and Mycroft might actually get around to this date. A quick run through tonight and he was ready for his visitor. Having to do his washing had helped him chose his clothes too – his favourite white shirt was clean and ironed and he didn’t have to worry about his jeans needing a wash. With a deep breath, Greg turned his attention to the meal.

When the doorbell rang, everything was ready. Well, kind of, Greg amended, figuring something would go wrong at some point.

 _Jesus, when did I get so pessimistic?_ Pausing in the hall for a second, he closed his eyes, reminding himself Mycroft had suggested this. Wanted to come and see him, even on short notice, even without a properly cooked meal. Greg suspected the state of his sitting room wasn’t really the kind of thing Mycroft would judge either, but he was still nervous.

_Nervous is okay, but don’t get so negative, Greg!_

A sharp nod to himself as he reached for the doorhandle, and there was no turning back.

“Hi,” he said, opening the door to Mycroft.

“Good evening,” Mycroft replied. He stepped inside, shedding his coat and offering Greg the bottle of wine before taking off his gloves. “I should have asked what you intended to cook.”

“It’s fine,” Greg said. “Come through. It’s not fancy, I’ve been at work all day.” He watched Mycroft surreptitiously examine his flat, taking the opportunity to note Mycroft’s work suit. _He came right from work._ “Didn’t even make the pasta, though it’s a good alternative, this brand.”

“I appreciate you made the effort,” Mycroft told him. “At such short notice a take away would have been more than adequate.”

“I told you I’d cook,” Greg said with a grin. “Not one to go back on my word, Mycroft.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied with a smile of his own.

The tension Mycroft appeared to have brought with him disappeared as they gazed at each other, until Greg realised he was still holding the wine.

“So your meeting was cancelled?” Greg asked, opening the bottle. He had wine glasses somewhere, digging them out from the top cupboard and giving them a quick wash.

“It was,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “It might be more accurate to say the meeting proceeded without me. You remember I was planning certain changes at work?”

“I do,” Greg said, rinsing the glasses, hoping his fumbling fingers wouldn’t drop them. _He cancelled the meeting…_

“Some of my requests have been implemented already,” Mycroft replied. “Including allowing selected staff to attend meetings on my behalf. It’s hardly worth training new people if they won’t have the opportunity to use their new skills. They have been surprisingly accommodating in some respects.”

“Well that’s good,” Greg said. “Isn’t it?”

Mycroft tilted his head, accepting a glass of wine. “I believe so,” he said noncommittally. “The remaining points of discussion are ongoing, but those changes will naturally take longer to effect, should they be agreed upon.”

“Congratulations, then,” Greg said, offering his glass. They touched the glasses together. “This is really good, thanks for bringing it.”

“Turn up empty handed? My mother would be appalled at such rudeness,” Mycroft said lightly.

“So would mine,” Greg agreed. He didn’t really want to get into family politics, so asked, “Are you hungry? The pasta will only take a few minutes.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied.

Greg busied himself at the stovetop, conscious of Mycroft standing behind him until he was able to turn back around. He leaned one hip against the bench as he asked, “So did you tell anyone you had a date tonight?”

“I did not,” Mycroft replied. “There is nobody at work with whom I would share such intimacies.”

Greg nodded. “Sally picked it,” he said. “DS Donovan.”

“She is well suited to her job,” Mycroft said, sipping at his wine.

“Yeah,” Greg said. It was weird to be able to say, “I’m glad none of the others knew. Gets a bit awkward sometimes.”

“How so?” Mycroft asked.

“Jokes about the inevitability of sex,” Greg admitted, annoyed at himself when his cheeks heated. “I laugh it off, but it’s still uncomfortable.”

“And Sally does not make such comments?” Mycroft asked.

“No,” Greg replied. “She just said she was happy for me.”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “I understand discussion of intimate relationships is common among close workmates,” he said, looking casually into his wine glass. “Would there be an expectation that you share such details?”

Greg shrugged, turning to take the lid off the boiling water and ease the pasta into it. He wasn’t fooled by Mycroft’s casual demenour – the question clearly held more weight than he was willing to admit.

“Sometimes,” he said, turning back. “I usually put a stop to it if I overhear it. Easy enough to put it on sexual harassment, creating a safe environment and all that.” He shrugged again. “I’m not the only one calling it out anymore, thank goodness.”

Mycroft nodded, but Greg could see he was still thinking something.

“What?” he asked, picking up his wine glass.

“My question was more regarding…your relationships,” he said delicately. “If you would feel under pressure to...”

“Oh,” Greg said quietly. _He wants to know if I’d talk about us…_ “No,” he said simply.

“No?” Mycroft asked.

“No,” Greg shrugged. “It’s none of their business. Sometimes at the pub it gets a bit rowdy, but I’m a bit too old and a bit too senior to get pulled into anything, and one thing I learned early on, the pressure to share is rarely stated explicitly.” He put his wine down and stared levelly at Mycroft. “I’m seeing someone.” Mycroft didn’t move, and Greg waited a beat before adding, “Are you asking for details of my sex life? Because that’s none of your business.”

Unfolding his arms and relaxing, Greg reached over to flick off the hob and tip out the pasta. “It doesn’t always stop the teasing, but when they realise you’re not going to discuss it – or that you’re prepared to call out their sexual harassment – most people drop it.”

Mycroft nodded. “I admit I have not been party to such discussions,” he replied. “Though with my current security clearance, any long term partner would need to be registered for their own protection.”

“I understand,” Greg replied, turning back to finish putting the meal together. The pasta was tossed with his father’s bolognaise sauce, kept in the freezer for such nights as he didn’t have time or energy for proper food. He’d dug out the good shaved parmesan too, knowing it meant he wanted to impress Mycroft but not hesitating. “This is ready.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said automatically.

They sat at the table, serving pasta and salad into their respective bowls.

“My father’s recipe,” Greg told him when Mycroft complimented the dish. “Doesn’t taste the same when I make it.”

The conversation drifted comfortably, and Greg was surprised when the food and wine were finished. Mycroft was far less uptight than he remembered from their work interactions, sharing details Greg would never have dreamed of asking about. Perhaps their first conversation on the walk had relaxed him, or maybe it was just that they were here together, the knowledge already between them enough to smooth their conversational way.

“I have some strawberry ice-cream if you’re interested,” Greg said when the dishes had been cleared away.

“Homemade?” Mycroft asked. He offered the smile with which Greg was becoming more familiar. “I only ask because you mentioned pasta, and it’s clear you have culinary ability.”

“Yeah,” Greg admitted. “It uses an absolutely sinful number of eggs, but I usually just have a spoonful at a time so it lasts ages.”

“A spoonful sounds perfect,” Mycroft said.

“Seriously?” Greg asked, surprised. “I literally stand at the open freezer and eat it.”

“Reduces the number of dishes,” Mycroft said, smiling at Greg’s astounded nod. “An approach with which I wholeheartedly agree.”

Greg couldn’t quite believe it when the spoon he offered Mycroft was accepted with a smile. Spoon in his own hand, Greg pulled the dish from the freezer – there was hardly space there for both of them – and placed it on the table. He spun the container, offering Mycroft the as yet untouched end. It was silent as they dug into the frozen mass, Mycroft’s eyes sparkling as they met Greg’s.

“That’s very good,” he said eventually, placing his spoon in the sink.

“Thank you,” Greg replied. “Not my father’s recipe at all, but worth every second.”

“You’re right, one spoonful is certainly enough,” Mycroft replied.

“Especially after pasta for tea,” Greg replied, returning the ice-cream to the freezer. “Speaking of tea, can I make you a cuppa?”

“Yes please,” Mycroft replied.

He seemed happy to stand quietly as Greg prepared their mugs. When they retired to the sofa with their tea, Greg smiled.

“This is nice,” he said.

Mycroft nodded. “I admit a level of apprehension before this evening,” he said quietly.

“Me too,” Greg said. “Actually you know why I realised it now?” Mycroft shook his head. “This would be about the time someone would be kind of expected to make a move. Try for a kiss or something.”

“Ah,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “And would it generally have carried an ulterior meaning, you offering to cook in your home?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I didn’t even think of it, actually.”

It was pleasant, being able to do something nice, something he actually liked doing without the awkwardness of explaining he was offering only food and conversation. Greg had given up on that a long time ago. Just another change in his behaviour to accommodate the assumption sex would be a natural progression of their relationship.

Mycroft smiled again. “If I might ask,” he said, “I have been undertaking more reading regarding the spectrum of experiences along which asexual individuals place themselves.”

“Right,” Greg replied, holding in a smile at the formal phrasing. “Go ahead. With your question, I mean. I don’t know if I’ll be able to answer, I don’t know all that much about the community.”

“The question is personal,” Mycroft asked, his tone almost apologetic.

“Oh, well, go ahead,” Greg replied, nerves fluttering before he settled them with a sip of his tea. “I’ll do my best. I’m still working things out though.”

“I know,” Mycroft said quietly. “As am I.”

He cleared his throat and Greg took another sip of tea, wondering what he could be planning to ask that made him so nervous. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and directed at his hands, long finger flexing around his mug.

“While I understand that…highly intimate physical acts are off the table, shall we say,” he said, face flaming even in the low light, “I find myself wondering what you might be…desiring.”

_Shit._

Greg swallowed hard. The words had barely registered before his heart started pounding and he the beginnings of panic swirled in his mind. He clenched his hands around his mug, wondering how out of proportion his response really was to the simple question.

“Right now?” he asked.

“If that is how you wish to answer,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded. He’d never had these conversations. Not now, sitting calmly on a sofa. Not with someone who knew the word _asexual_ and accepted it. Expected to hear his limits. Expected him to _have_ limits that involved clothes being kept on instead of removed. How odd that the presence of what he’d so desperately wanted was making him so anxious.

_Don’t complicate it._

_Just answer his question._

“If we sat and talked for a while and then you went home,” Greg said finally, “I would be…” _How would I be?_ “I would be very happy.”

Mycroft nodded. “And I,” he replied. He hesitated. “You appear uncomfortable with this conversation,” he said. “Shall we discuss something else?”

“Yes please,” Greg said quietly.

After a brief pause, Mycroft said, “Tell me about your poster.” He nodded to the framed poster sitting on the only wall with enough space to show it.

“ _Bladerunner_?” Greg asked, blinking. “Please tell me you’ve seen it.”

“’More human than human is our motto’,” Mycroft replied, the quote rolling off his tongue without pause.

“It’s one of my favourites,” Greg admitted. He inhaled deeply, holding the breath as he told himself the conversation wasn’t going where he’d feared it would. They could talk about _Bladerunner_ instead.

“Tell me, what is your position on the humanity of Deckard?” Mycroft asked.

Greg could see what Mycroft was doing – dragging him into a completely unrelated conversation – and rather than being annoyed, he was grateful. He wondered if Mycroft could read it in his expression, and decided he probably could. Either way, he was waiting patiently, a curl of steam dancing up the side of his face as he raised his mug.

_Very clever. And considerate._

“Well,” Greg said, “in the book, it’s not made clear, but I think Scott made it more ambiguous in the movie.”

He watched Mycroft’s eyes softly radiate pleasure at his acceptance of the change of topic. They debated points, a part of Greg wondering if Mycroft actually opposed him or was taking the position of devil’s advocate simply for the purpose of this conversation. Either way, it was interesting, and when Mycroft finally admitted he might need to watch the movie again to be sure, Greg considered it a win.

“I guess that’s what we’re doing next time,” he said. The clock in the kitchen was visible from here, and it was pushing midnight. When had that happened? “I don’t mean to kick you out, but I’m going to have to beat the office in tomorrow to make sure our paperwork’s doing what it’s meant to be doing.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. They placed their mugs in the sink and Greg followed him to the entrance, holding his coat and watching as his gloves slid on. He was careful to let Mycroft fix his own collar, though it was tempting. Having averted a conversation about boundaries he could hardly move in on Mycroft’s without asking.

“Thank you for having me, Gregory.”

“Thank you for coming,” Greg said. “And for our conversation about _Bladerunner_.”

Mycroft smiled, and Greg knew he understood the real gratitude. _Thank you for not pushing._

“I will have Sundays free for the foreseeable future,” Mycroft said. “If you wish to go for a run this weekend, please let me know.”

“Let’s call it a tentative yes,” Greg said. “Text me on Saturday afternoon and I’ll let you know.” He grinned. “I hope you don’t have too high expectations.”

“I hold no expectations on your abilities, and I would appreciate the same courtesy,” Mycroft said with a soft smile. “I have progressed as far as ordering new running shoes and no further since we first spoke of it.”

“Good,” Greg replied. “I won’t be too far behind, then.”

It was only a couple of seconds in which they stood smiling at each other in the entrance of his flat, but Greg felt warmth wind through him. A sudden moment of panic – _what am I doing?_ – and he fumbled for the door, breaking their gaze to grasp the deadlock.

“I’ll be in touch,” Mycroft said, stepping past.

Greg breathed in the air that shifted, a mix of cologne and warm human, and smiled.

“Good night, Mycroft,” he said.

Well if that wasn’t motivation to get stuff done by Saturday night, he didn’t know what was. He was smiling as he set his alarm, getting ready for bed before realising he was still too wired to sleep. Washing the dishes and putting the leftovers in the fridge were calming enough, and when he finally dropped into bed, Greg feel asleep without delay.

+++

“So,” Sally said, placing Greg’s coffee on his desk, “you must have been in early if you wanted another coffee already.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Greg replied absently. He’d texted her, knowing her usual Thursday morning routine involved stopping by the good coffee place next to the yoga studio when time allowed. “Thanks again for last night.”

“No problem,” Sally said. She disappeared and returned without her coat and gloves, obviously ready to work. “Where are we at?”

Greg was relieved to avoid the conversation about his date. He wasn’t averse to telling people he was dating a man; that kind of thing wouldn’t tank his career as it might have even ten years ago. Plus, if he was honest with himself, he simply didn’t have the same ambition now. Another nine years and he’d be off on a pension, if he wanted. It wouldn’t be huge if he retired as DI, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world, either. Not if he was on his own.

Explaining the ace thing was different, though. He knew Sally was both discreet and non-judgemental; she’d shown it a dozen times. But if she found out Greg was dating Mycroft, he’d essentially be outing Mycroft, too. As most of his brain concentrated on double checking the facts for their warrant, a small part of him decided he’d keep the Mycroft/ace part to himself, at least until he could talk to Mycroft. And that was assuming they were dating, anyway. Two dates did not a relationship make. And that was a whole ‘nother thing to discuss anyway. How long would they date before they were ‘seeing each other?’ And why was it such a big deal this time, when his other relationships had just kind of fallen into place?

Greg was still mulling over how things were different when the warrant paperwork went off. He didn’t even notice Sally closing the door from the inside of his office. In fact his hand was halfway to his phone to text Mycroft when he realised she was inside, and closing the internal blinds for that matter.

“What?” he said, startled.

She sat down, looking at him levelly. “You’ve been distracted all morning,” she said.

“Have I?” Greg said. He thought he’d been fine. There were a couple of little things, but nothing that would give him away as only half paying attention.

“Yeah,” Sally said, with a tone that implied, ‘obviously.’

“Sorry,” Greg muttered, hoping she’d drop the subject.

“What’s the deal with this new date?” Sally asked.

“What?” Greg said.

“This is not the same as usual,” Sally said. “I know the routine, boss. You find someone, you fit them in around work, or you don’t, and it falls apart.” Greg winced at her brutal, accurate assessment. “But this one, you sent me home for. You’ve been happily texting for over a week, and you were disappointed on Monday, and annoyed you had to cancel last Friday night.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You signed those D-14’s before I’d finished filling them in!” Sitting back, she crossed her legs, a movement Greg recognised as her, ‘I’ve presented the case, I’m ready to hear what you have to say now,” from interviews.

_Shit._

Greg took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. He looked at her levelly, thinking hard but also hoping she understood he was telling her details on a need-to-know basis. “I’m kind of seeing someone. It’s still new. And it’s different. But good so far.” He paused, looking at her hard. “But I am definitely not ready to talk about it yet.”

Sally looked at him, assessing. “Is it someone I know?”

Greg nodded once.

“Someone on the job?”

Greg shook his head.

“Should I stop asking questions now?”

Greg nodded.

Sally studied him for second before nodding and standing up. “Okay,” she said. “But if something happens, I’m going to need a heads up if I’m going to have your back.”

Greg nodded. “Thank you,” he whispered.


	8. Chapter 8

Tying his running shoes was not the oddest part of Mycroft’s Sunday morning, though it was hardly usual. The fact that he hadn’t run in so long, or that he never ran with somebody else still didn’t account for this level of unease. As he sat up, wiggling his toes inside his runners, Mycroft admitted it to himself.

It was strange because not only was he not working, he had no plans to do so. For the entire day. For as long as he could remember, Sunday was more or less the same as any other day, or it had been; the change to his schedule was still new enough to feel uncomfortable. Sundays meant only that he worked from home. Up and dressed in time to watch the weak sun break over the skyline of London as he ate breakfast. Working in his home office until midday before breaking for tea and lunch.

The day after his first date with Gregory, the path so deeply worn diverted.

As he sat his clean tea cup back in the cupboard, Mycroft took a deep breath. Normally he would now return to work. Preparing for the week, reviewing the delicate negotiations he was due to begin with another country’s overbearing new political leaders.

Not today. With shaking hands, Mycroft withdrew a flash drive from his personal safe, along with his personal laptop. To other people it might appear to be overkill, but Mycroft knew nothing was too much when it came to digital security. Working as though someone was looking over his shoulder was habit after so long, and when the only file on the flash drive opened Mycroft’s fingers flexed. Carefully, he reviewed the notes he’d written when the idea had first come to him, wondering if it was too extreme.

It appeared not, and words flowed easily as he expanded the notes into a fully-fledged proposal. Immediately, he’d be passing some of his work to others; tasks for which his security clearance was laughably too high anyway. In the longer term, there were a number of colleagues with whom he could work, effectively upskilling them to take over his primary portfolio. These tasks were simple enough, and none gave him pause. For Mycroft the biggest challenge – and change – would be far more personal. On call for critical tasks on which it would be more difficult to replace him, Mycroft would otherwise be keeping regular office hours for the first time in his life. He would work Saturdays from home, but Sundays no longer. What he would do with an entire day free from work commitments – not to mention regular evenings?

That question would have stumped him before Gregory. Now, though the specifics were hazy, possibilities did occur to him. Gregory appeared to be interested in helping him fulfil these possibilities, too. Nothing was guaranteed of course but having some time to pursue this surprising new avenue was the push he needed to finish his proposal.

Reviewing his proposal, Mycroft hesitated one last time before carefully typing the final sentence. The one he hoped would prompt those for whom the letter was intended to consider his words without dismissing it out of hand. When it was done, he stopped to read it through, unable to believe he was going to send it to his employers.

_Should you be unwilling to negotiate the details of this proposal, I will have no choice but to tender my resignation effective immediately._

It was not a surprise when negotiations began; even this process was tired and predictable. Mycroft knew the details on which they would yield and those on which they would baulk. He had created his proposal with this knowledge, and as such was prepared to compromise at certain points. The power balance in such a situation was a subtle creature and Mycroft could not capitulate immediately without weakening his position. It was tedious but necessary. These delicacies meant things took far longer than he would prefer, but as Mycroft was easily the best negotiator in the country it hardly stretched his skills, merely his patience.

A week later, as he checked the double knotted laces, Mycroft marvelled at how easy it had all been. It stung his sense of importance, he had to admit; perhaps without him Her Majesty’s Empire would not falter after all. It certainly had not fallen in the previous week, though he had been pulled into more than one situation outside of his recently diminished portfolio. Today though, with his work mobile phone switched off and no international conferences planned, there was nothing stopping his meeting Gregory.

Checking his watch, Mycroft wondered if it was too soon to leave. He’d risen early, as was his habit, and even with a deliberately slow start to his day, there was still over an hour until he was due to make it to the Queen Elizabeth Gate to meet Gregory. Walking into his living room, Mycroft looked around. On a whim, he turned instead into the library, tilting his head to read the spines of the second shelf. When he found _Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?_ Mycroft slid it off the shelves. It was a long time since he’d opened this early copy, but it had been a favourite. With a smile, he set the alarm on his new watch, anticipating being drawn into the story again.

+++

“Hey Mycroft,” Gregory greeted him as he arrived at the gate. “Nice runners.”

He was dressed in loose shorts and what appeared to be a brand new sleeveless running shirt. It made Mycroft feel less self-conscious about the entirely new outfit he wore. His old running clothes were probably fine, but nerves and the need to do something to prepare had spurred him to further purchases. He also couldn’t deny his desire to show Gregory he was able to dress appropriately for a casual date.

As he watched, Gregory tugged at the hem of his shirt, smiling at him when he realised Mycroft was looking.

_At least I’m not the only one conscious of how I look._

“And yours,” Mycroft replied, unable to avoid returning the wide smile on Gregory’s face. “Still new, I see.”

“I’ve broken them in a little,” Gregory said, “though if I start feeling like I’m going to throw up, I’ll blame blisters.”

“Noted,” Mycroft said. Gregory’s excited nervous energy was contagious, and Mycroft was ready to keep moving. “Shall we warm up?”

“Let’s walk,” Gregory replied.

They walked briskly, joining the people already heading further into the park. Mycroft was cold, but he knew his body would warm up as they started running. Neither spoke until the path curved around the lake, and Gregory looked at Mycroft.

“You ready to speed it up?” he asked.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. “Let me know if your knee gives you any discomfort.” He was being serious, but the look Gregory shot him made it clear he knew his ruse was blown.

As they broke into a jog, Mycroft felt his body slowly waking up. The initial protest as his quads and calves remembered the work; his lungs burned before the breathing came back to him. It was strange keeping pace with someone. He couldn’t ever remember sharing this with another person, and most of his attention was on Gregory. He had no idea how fast Gregory used to run, but they seemed to be keeping up with each other well enough. Plenty of people were passing them, and they in turn weaved around parents with prams and couples wandering along in the cool morning light.

It was pleasant, Mycroft was relieved to find. They turned at random, following each other without discussion at each intersection until Mycroft’s sense of direction was quite turned around. He was breathing hard by the time they reached the Reformer’s Tree, and one glance at Gregory told him they should take a break. Easing back, Mycroft slowed into a walk. He laced his fingers behind his head, pulling air into his lungs. As he walked in a slow circle he could see Gregory lying on the lawn, knees up as he breathed deeply.

“Are you alright?”

“Blisters,” Gregory gasped, grinning.

Mycroft felt the smile break over his face at the in-joke. He wasn’t used to understanding such comments and the warmth in his chest was too much to be just his burning lungs. He walked for a few minutes more before sitting beside Gregory. It took a few moments to realise why he felt so strange. The grass was cool against his hands, and from here he was at eye level with the small children examining the stones of the Reformer’s Tree.

_I’m sitting on the ground. How extraordinary._

“I don’t remember the last time I sat on the grass,” Mycroft said.

Gregory turned to look at him. “You’re not usually dressed for it,” he pointed out.

“This is not my usual attire,” Mycroft agreed. They sat for a while, their breathing slowly easing. “I may have to invest in some less formal suits,” Mycroft mused, watching people walk. He couldn’t see a single person in a suit, though several had made somewhat more of an effort towards their appearance. Disappointingly, denim jeans were by far the most common choice.

“Informal suits?” Gregory asked with a grin. “You could lower yourself to the same level as the rest of us and invest in some jeans, you know.”

Mycroft winced, wondering if his personal dismay at the prevalence of denim was so obvious. “I will speak with my tailor,” he said.

He trusted Emilio’s judgement, though he also suspected Emilio would shrug and tell him to buy jeans if he was planning on…whatever it was he was planning on. Seeing Gregory? Having free time? Truly recreational time? Mycroft blinked, looking over the park. So many people, out enjoying themselves with others. Was such an existence really within his reach?

“Well I hope this tailor is a sensible guy,” Gregory said. “Because there’s no way you’ll be comfortable sitting on grass in a suit.”

Mycroft looked down at Gregory. “This is something you do often?”

“Well, no,” Gregory replied, leaning forward to stretch a hamstring. “But it’s good to have the option.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to ask, but closed it instead. He had no idea what Gregory might do that would put him in danger of needing to sit on the grass, but he decided it didn’t matter. Instead he resigned himself to purchasing jeans. At least Emilio would make the process marginally less painful.

“How are the blisters?” Mycroft asked instead.

Gregory grinned at him, hauling himself to sit up properly. “A miraculous recovery,” he said. “Jesus, I haven’t run like that in a long time.”

“Nor I,” Mycroft replied. “We should warm down. Tomorrow will be painful either way, but a warm down will ease the discomfort.”

Gregory nodded, looking around. He must have been collecting his bearings because he brightened. “Let’s go that way,” he said, pointing out of the park.

“Certainly,” Mycroft said. They both stood and walked in that direction, though Mycroft had no idea why. Gregory’s choice quickly became clear when he stopped at the door of a bakery.

“Best apricot Danishes in town,” he said with a grin, holding the door for Mycroft.

“I’m not sure this counts as warming down,” Mycroft murmured, though he had to smile at Gregory’s enthusiasm.

“Just try one,” Gregory said. He approached the counter, smiling as the girl took his order. She gave him two paper bags and two bottles of water and he turned back to Mycroft. “Let’s eat outside,” he said as more people came into the shop.

They stepped out, taking the last small table. Gregory handed over one of the bags and one of the bottles of water. He grinned at Mycroft as they both took out their pastries.

“The moment of truth,” Mycroft said, raising the Danish to his mouth. He took a bite, deliberately arranging his face into a thoughtful expression as he considered the treat. “Smooth custard, crisp pastry,” he said consideringly, watching as Gregory’s expression moved through understanding into good-natured exasperation. “The fruit is tender,” he added, but his façade cracked when Gregory reached across the table.

“If it’s not up to your standard,” he said, but Mycroft pulled his food backwards.

“I did not say that,” he replied through his smile. “It is very good,” he allowed.

“This is,” Gregory said, pausing to swallow, “the best Danish in London.” He reached for his water as he said, “I’ve done extensive research, I’ll have you know.”

Mycroft smiled. “I have not,” he said, “so I will have to bow to your superior experience on this matter.”

“Well just so you know, it’s an ongoing investigation,” Gregory said. “Whenever I go past a new bakery, I have to try their apricot Danish.”

“And if they don’t have apricot Danishes?”

Gregory stared at him, aghast. “Mycroft Holmes, what kind of bakery does not have apricot Danishes?”

Taken aback, Mycroft blinked before realising Gregory was joking. “Of course,” he replied. “No establishment with any sense of pride would fail to produce apricot Danishes.”

“Exactly,” Gregory said, crumpling his bag. “I’m glad we agree.”

“This somewhat defeats the purpose of running,” Mycroft said. They tossed their bags in the rubbish and water in hand headed down the street.

“Well, not really,” Gregory objected. “I mean, it’s a good incentive.”

Mycroft looked at Gregory but chose not to reply. Their banter was light but he was not confident he’d avoid offending Gregory. _Best change the subject._ “Might I offer you a lift home?”

“You still get the cars?” Gregory asked. “Even with the changes to your work hours?”

“I do,” Mycroft replied, pressing the call button on his watch. He hesitated, but added, “I may have included that stipulation in my proposal.”

The smile that broke over Gregory’s face was slow and beautiful as he clearly delighted in something. “Even on your day off?”

 _Day off._ The phrase was odd when applied to himself, but Mycroft smiled. “Particularly so,” he said, hoping to see the same smile again. He was not disappointed.

“A lift would be great,” Gregory said. He rolled his shoulder over. “Definitely going to need a hot shower when I get home.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft said absently.

“Are you saying I need a shower?” Gregory asked, eyebrows raised.

“No!” Mycroft said. “No, I was referring to myself.”

“I know,” Gregory said. “I was teasing.”

“Ah,” Mycroft replied uncertainly. “My apologies.”

“Don’t apologise,” Gregory said as the car pulled up. “Thanks,” he said, sliding across the seat.

Mycroft followed him into the car. He leaned forward to speak with the driver before pulling back to sit beside Gregory. The privacy screen came up, and Mycroft turned to Gregory.

“How is your caseload?” he asked.

“Not terrible, touch wood,” Gregory replied. “We’re mostly on top of things, as long as I ignore my emails and paperwork.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said with a smile. “Well ignoring that, I will congratulate you.”

“Thanks,” Gregory replied. “Even got to send everyone home for the entire day today.”

“A rare luxury,” Mycroft agreed.

“How are you finding having so much time to yourself now?” Gregory asked.

“It is unusual,” Mycroft admitted. Before he could expand on it, the car pulled up at Gregory’s building. He was strangely disappointed when Gregory glanced out the window. Swallowing, Mycroft braced for the expected farewell.

“Look, I don’t really have any plans this afternoon,” Gregory said, words tumbling over each other. He turned from the window, smiling tentatively. “If you want to come over later,” he shrugged. “We could find something to do.”

Mycroft looked at him, considering the offer. It was automatic to search for any ulterior motive but he couldn’t see one, and he was learning to see the consistent openness in Gregory’s manner.

_He’s not like the people you deal with at work._

_No ulterior motive._

“I have no plans,” he said finally, heart beating unusually fast. “However I do require a shower. Perhaps I might return after I have done so at home?”

“Sure,” Gregory replied. “I was planning on cooking. I made fish stock last night, and I’m going to make bouillabaisse today. And probably bread, too.”

Mycroft couldn’t help being impressed. “You’re making bouillabaisse from scratch?” he asked.

Gregory nodded. “And bread,” he reminded Mycroft with a grin.

“In that case I will bring wine,” Mycroft said with a smile.

“Great,” Gregory replied. “I’ll be home, take your time.”

Mycroft nodded, waiting until Gregory was safely inside before directing the car to his home and sitting back. He looked out the window, barely noticing the passing scene without really seeing what was there. He and Gregory had further plans today. More than that, Gregory made the offer.

_He would prefer to have my company than not._

Mycroft mulled over the idea as the car moved through the streets. He was not experienced enough to know if things were moving towards friendship or something more. If nothing else, they were comfortable enough to run together, to talk about otherwise awkward things. The fact that Gregory had asked for his company today proved it wasn’t just him. Perhaps their association would help ease the loneliness Mycroft sometimes feared would overcome his existence. Perhaps it would work for both of them.

Impulsively, Mycroft pulled out his phone, Googling a recipe. He mentally chose a bottle of wine from his cellar before asking his driver to stop at the Sainsbury’s on the return trip to Gregory’s house. He hoped he was not overstepping, but trusted that Gregory would tell him if he was doing so.

_If you’re deducing things to be nice, that’s okay._

He hoped it would be.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear ace friends - you have been wonderfully supportive of this story, thank you so much!
> 
> TW: Please be aware this chapter may be difficult as it includes a conversation about Greg's previous (sexual) relationships. Without giving away too many details, Greg figures he needs to explain how he's masked his asexuality in the past. It's not explicit but it is uncomfortable. Please take care of yourself and make good choices for your mental health.
> 
> Chapter summary at the end if you'd prefer. <3 Blue

Greg found himself humming as he pulled out the ingredients to cook. The morning had put him in a good mood. Running and talking with Mycroft had been so easy, and even when he accepted a lift the idea that it would end hadn’t really crossed his mind. Frustratingly enough, he felt Mycroft just started to answer an important question when the car stopped, and he looked outside.

_Shit. That’s my place._

Greg hadn’t even realised his mouth opened before he spoke. The first words rolled out before he’d considered them, before he could turn to look at Mycroft.

A bunch of thoughts tumbled through his mind.

_Fuck._

_Would he want to spend more time with me?_

Taking a deep breath, he really tried for a smile. “If you want to come over later,” he forced the words out, hoping to make it a more attractive prospect. “We could find something to do.”

_Christ, could that sound more lame? Why would he want to do such nothing?_

He couldn’t believe it when Mycroft said yes. The suddenness of his acceptance took a second to sink in, but Greg replied automatically, relieved he remembered the state of his fridge. He had actually planned to make bouillabaisse. Something this week had reminded him of his Grand-mère, watching her cook as he sat at her well-scrubbed wooden table. Greg had called his father, enduring the conversation so he could ask after her recipe, but his father didn’t have it. He googled a few recipes and found one that looked alright.

Each step of buying the ingredients sent a cascade of memories through him. Choosing the seafood was a strange experience – Lord knew he was rarely up early enough to visit the fish markets, and the memories of pre-dawn light, his breath blowing like a dragon in the cold. One hand was always warm, tucked inside his father’s as the world bustled around them.

It was strange, doing it on his own, but Greg sought out familiar shapes – fish, mussels, clams, prawns – far too much for one person. It would keep, he knew, and at least it would mean he had tea ready for the week. Making the broth first was something he remembered his grandmother doing; she wasn’t much for closely following a recipe. She would definitely approve of the way he tweaked it as he went, and in the end he was happy with the result.

As it turned out it was a good thing he’d decided to buy so much. Taking the parcels out of the fridge now, knowing Mycroft would return, the butterflies in his stomach fluttered. His hand shook a little as he measured the ingredients for the bread. It would be a few hours until it was ready, but he really didn’t have a timeline on when Mycroft would come back. Not that it mattered. They didn’t have specific plans, and it was still only late morning, even after he’d showered.

Plenty of hours left for the rest of the day.

Greg hummed quietly as he filleted the fish, memories coming back to him as he worked. So much of his childhood had taken part in the kitchen with his father, and it was a long time since he’d taken the time to do this. The cannelloni last week had been a starting point (or was it the week before?), and Greg remembered he enjoyed cooking. It brought back the random conversations he and his father would have. Whatever was taking his interest at the time. Greek mythology. Chess. Football. His grandmother would roll her eyes but Greg knew there was fondness under her exasperation. Even after all these years it was a little strange cooking on his own. Today it would change, though. Maybe.

A lot of things were changing at the moment.

His mind wandered and he let it, the familiar repetitive motions soothing some of the anxiety he felt, and as his mind ventured to consider the difficult question he’d put off on the first date. And he remembered how he’d phrased it.

_Missing a key set of data._

The careful technique of scrubbing mussels allowed his mind to process what he’d been thinking at the time. Clearly, he wanted some space to think, but since then he’d pushed it away. Mycroft had noticed yesterday; Greg winced as he remembered how carefully he’d changed the direction of the conversation.

_You can’t hide from it forever._

Mussels clean and in their own bowl; Greg rolled the beards in the butchers paper, ready to be discarded. Absently he turned to de-vein the prawns as his mind continued to work. Mycroft had been asking him about how people negotiated sexual preferences. Greg paused, watching the knife quiver for a second. Sex wasn’t foreign to him, not after so many years. But it wasn’t something he enjoyed. He knew there was a range of preferences when it came to the specifics; his various partners had communicated in different ways, and Greg had always capitulated.

And in all his relationships, it was Greg who wanted less. A lot less.

_Compromise. Relationships are always compromise. So I compromised._

He swallowed, remembering voices and hands.

_Do you like this?_

_What do you want?_

_Can I…can you…_

Greg swallowed again, gripping the edge of the bench. By the time he’d been old enough to be having sex, he already knew it was something he wasn’t into. But other people were. Other _men_ were. And if there was one certainty, Greg wanted to be like other people. He didn’t want to be different. His family didn’t like different. It was already different enough that he wanted to date both men and women; at least he knew other people who did that.

But everybody wanted sex.

So when they asked, ‘Can I?’ or ‘Do you like?’, he said ‘Yes.’

When the crux of it finally came to him Greg felt himself breathe deeply. _You have to address this. If things are going to work with Mycroft, you can’t hide this stuff._

He took another deep breath, allowing the thoughts to appear and sit without pushing them away.

_I don’t know what I like. I’ve never told anyone. I’ve never had that conversation and been honest._

It scared the hell out of him. Almost more than accepting he was ace. That was something less personal. ‘Ace’ meant something so broad, but this felt like it was putting a much more specific stamp on it. And he was going to be vulnerable, more vulnerable than the relative anonymity of a barman he barely knew or an app.

In the bar, Tom had made him feel safe before he’d opened up.

On the app, he knew this part of him would be accepted.

When he and Mycroft met, and talked, and talked again, they used more euphemisms than Greg ever had. His experiences were more of the fumbling-breathless-dimmed-light type. But now he was an adult. How could he accept this part of himself without talking about it? Mycroft was a safe space, he knew that intellectually. And for all he knew Mycroft was agonising about the same thing right now.

_Fuck. I’m not a naïve kid anymore._

Greg pushed himself away, focussing on the meal.

_You don’t have to do it today._

As the prawn veins disappeared into the butcher’s paper, Greg noticed he wasn’t humming anymore.

When Mycroft arrived, he didn’t look at the clock. He wasn’t paying attention except to keep the bread going; it was almost ready to go in the oven. The bouillabaisse was simmering away, and it would be ready when the bread was done.

He hadn’t planned on making the red pepper rouille, but the recipe he found suggested it and Greg was in the mood to try something new, so he’d picked up more garlic, red peppers and fresh parsley while he was out. With the bread almost done and no more work needed on the bouillabaisse, he could turn his attention to roasting the peppers.

Once he’d answered the door.

“Good afternoon,” Mycroft said. He looked anxious, Greg thought, hands laced in front of him and holding a bag. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Greg nodded, the anxious mood from earlier still hanging around him. “I’m glad you could come.” He stepped back and let Mycroft into his flat. He wasn’t wearing jeans, but Greg still felt a smile tug at his mouth as he registered the collar of a white shirt poking over a round necked pullover. The deep turquoise was a very good colour, and without a tie Mycroft looked entirely different.

_He’s already making me feel better._

“I brought wine, as we discussed,” Mycroft said. He set the bag on the kitchen table, offering the wine to Greg. “It should pair well with our meal.”

“Thank you,” Greg said. “That’s a very big bag for one bottle of wine, though.” He grinned, hoping Mycroft wouldn’t feel upset by his words.

Mycroft’s hands clutched uneasily at the top of the bag. “I hope you don’t mind,” he started, “but I brought the makings of dessert, if that’s not over stepping the mark.”

“Not at all,” Greg said with a surge of curiosity. “Is it a secret?” He hoped his smile was encouraging as Mycroft’s shoulders relaxed. “You’re welcome to take over the kitchen if you want to.”

Despite the lowered shoulders, Mycroft was still addressing the bag, his words tense. _Apprehensive._ “I would prefer to check that it’s something you will like before I put it together.”

“I’m very inclusive when it comes to dessert,” Greg told him, grinning. He watched Mycroft taking things out of his bag, trying to figure out what he might be making.

_Eggs, vanilla, Greek yoghurt, a tin of…apricots?_

“On reflection, the apricot Danish reminded me of a dish our housekeeper favoured,” Mycroft said, setting out the rest of his ingredients. He smoothed out the empty bag and slipped off his jacket.

Greg could hear the apology in his voice and impulsively stepped forward, though he stopped short of touching.

“Mycroft,” he said carefully, “are you telling me you’re going to make an apricot Danish dessert?”

“Not Danishes,” Mycroft said. “Baked apricots in…well, it’s similar to custard.”

“That sounds amazing,” Greg said. _Jesus, he did that for me?_ “Thank you.”

Mycroft still didn’t look all that convinced, and Greg could see he was holding something back. “What?” he said.

“I trust I haven’t overstepped any boundaries,” Mycroft said, flicking a glance up at Greg. “Give your offer to cook for me.”

_Is he kidding?_

“You haven’t,” Greg said, “this is…so considerate. Thank you. Really.”

Mycroft looked up, studying Greg’s expression for an agonising few seconds before nodding. “I’ll hang my coat in the hall.”

Greg wasn’t completely convinced Mycroft was okay with his reaction, but at least he’d brought the makings of dessert. He wasn’t sure, but he’d done it anyway. And he was prepared for Greg to say no, though Greg was wondering how Mycroft would have dealt with that.

When Mycroft returned, Greg had filled water glasses. “Did you want some wine now?” he asked. He glanced at the clock. “Lunch is going to be…late.” He made a face. “Not really lunch, to be honest.”

“That is fine,” Mycroft said.

Greg looked at him. “Are you hungry, though?”

“I am happy to wait,” Mycroft said. “It smells incredible.”

“Okay,” Greg said. He watched as Mycroft took one of the water glasses and sat himself at the table. “I just have one thing to make, then it’s just the bread we’re waiting for.”

“You’re scorching the peppers yourself?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes,” Greg replied. “The recipe was on the same page as the bouillabaisse and it looked interesting.”

He was self-conscious as Mycroft watched him. Should he start the conversation he feared? It felt like he should do it today. This was the right point. He’d scraped the finished rouille from the food processor before he gathered his courage.

But it was tenuous…

“I was thinking, while I made this,” Greg said, looking down at his bowl. It was a slightly out of body experience, deliberately starting this conversation when he was so…

_Frightened. I am frightened of this. Of what might happen._

Mycroft was looking at him steadily, no pressure in his gaze as he waited for Greg. The atmosphere was fragile. Greg could feel Mycroft’s confidence still slowly building after his uncertainty around the apricots, and he cursed himself for not waiting until things were easy again before he started speaking.

“I was thinking,” Greg started again. “About…do you remember what we talked about on the walk?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Our conversation was wide ranging,” he said carefully.

Greg’s heart heaved as he felt how cautious Mycroft was being with him. He put the bowl on the table, flexing his fingers against the back of the chair.

_He can see how hard this is for me._

_He’s worried it will be difficult for him too._

_Jesus, we are well matched today._

Hesitantly, he sat opposite Mycroft. “We were talking about…preferences. About how to negotiate what we might…enjoy. And what we might…not.” Every word felt like a challenge to find and place and say. But Mycroft was nodding, and Greg swallowed hard, pushing through his own discomfort.

_This is important._

“I’ve…the conversations I’ve had,” Greg started then stopped again. He could feel emotion rising but breathed through it. “Without being honest about other things,” Greg stopped himself. _No. No more euphemisms._ “If I wasn’t honest about being asexual,” Greg said, “it made it really hard to be honest about what I wanted. What I want.” He took a deep breath and looked over to Mycroft. His expression was attentive, but Greg could tell he didn’t yet understand.

“When I have had those conversations,” Greg said, “I haven’t ever really been honest.” His brow was pulling into a frown, he could feel the muscles tense. “About what I am comfortable with. Physically.”

“Is that because the expectation was always that there would be sex?” Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded, relieved Mycroft was following his somewhat poorly defined trail of thought. “It was always about what kind of sex,” he said. “Not whether there would be sex or not.”

Mycroft was nodding.

“And I had to…” Greg swallowed, not sure how to phrase it.

“Acquiesce?” Mycroft suggested tentatively.

“Yes,” Greg whispered. He cringed at the admission, not realising his eyes were closed until he felt the muscles pulling in. He was bracing for something, he realised. A reaction, and a bad one. “We should make that dessert.”

He stood, turning away from Mycroft, reaching for the apricots. When Mycroft’s hand landed on his, closing over it, Greg stopped, eyes closing. It was hiding, and he knew it but the shame wasn’t enough to keep them open.

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was soft. There was silence; Greg could hear himself breathing. “Would you open your eyes?”

_But I’m safer in here…_

Another deep breath, and Greg opened his eyes to Mycroft.

He wasn’t angry, or dismissive or any of the other things Greg was worried about seeing when he connected to the familiar grey eyes. Instead of harsh judgement, Greg was astonished to find soft acceptance.

“You told me communication is key,” Mycroft said quietly. “Might I also ask if some of this communication was nonverbal?”

“It was,” Greg replied.

“Would that be more comfortable for you?” Mycroft asked.

Greg thought about it. _Yes._

“What about you?” he asked instead.

His words hung in the air for a long beat before Mycroft answered.

“I am entirely without previous experience,” Mycroft said. “And if I might venture to say, perhaps this might be an opportunity for you to explore what you prefer with…” he drew a deep breath, “me.”

Greg’s heart heaved. He could see Mycroft’s vulnerability, feel it offered in the air between them. What he was encouraging Greg to return to him.

_How is he so good at this?_

“Okay,” he whispered again.

“While I would like to think this is understood,” Mycroft said, “someone once told me communication is key. In the interests of making myself clear, you should know I will never expect you to acquiesce to my desires. Not in that respect.”

Greg nodded. “Maybe if we…as long as we go slowly,” he said. “And know it’s…” he swallowed, “okay to say no.”

Mycroft nodded. They looked at each other across the kitchen table for a dozen fast heartbeats; Greg couldn’t believe the world was still spinning. Mycroft was still standing opposite him. And as he watched the emotions fly across Mycroft’s face, Greg realised this was unlike any relationship he’d ever embarked upon.

As soon as he realised it, Greg felt freedom wash through him, combined with a sense of complete ridiculousness. It sounded so simplistic to say it like that, but the implication was deeper than his initial impression. It was more than ‘this is asexual’. No longer would he have to create a piece of himself that didn’t exist. He could just be himself. Even this level of honesty was beyond what he was used to. The freedom of it was a relief – not having to hide, or lie – but it was a double edged sword. It came with the expectation, too. That he wouldn’t hide, and he wouldn’t lie.

The fear was not gone. It was…sharper. More specific, now that he’d defined how this was different to what he already knew. Was that something he should be sharing? Was Mycroft feeling that way too?

_Share it, Greg. Tell him._

“I’m nervous about all this,” Greg said, the words falling awkwardly over each other. “It’s different. Good different. But I don’t know how to do it.”

“Neither do I,” Mycroft said. “If I’m to be honest, I have been apprehensive every step of this experience.”

Greg nodded, his heart easing. “I don’t think it’s really hit me until now,” he said. “I have been nervous but not like this.” He tried for a smile. “I’m used to not…really answering. Being honest.”

Mycroft nodded but didn’t say anything.

Greg felt his heart start to thump again. His mind started to race, but before it could get too far away from him, he felt something change. Mycroft’s hand, still resting on Greg’s, tightened infinitesimally and he smiled. His hand turned over, resting instead on the table beside the tin of apricots.

_He’s offering you his hand._

Greg’s stomach flopped as he hesitated, but forced himself to reach out. Mycroft’s fingers brushed his own and he almost flinched before they settled together properly this time. It was nice. Surprisingly comforting. As he shifted experimentally, Greg tried to figure out why. It wasn’t just the touch. It was the acceptance in himself. That this was enough. And incredibly, beyond any expectations he ever would have had, Mycroft was on the same page.

_Wow._

_This could be something._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg cooks a late lunch. Mycroft arrives with wine and the makings of an apricot and custard dessert. Greg decides to share how he's had to mask his asexuality in past relationships by engaging in physical contact as he felt this was required. He is unfamiliar with the practice of setting his own physical boundaries. Mycroft is understanding and Greg feels both the freedom and the weight of being able (and expected) to be honest about what he wants.  
> They hold hands and agree it's not going to be easy.


	10. Chapter 10

“Shall we assemble the dessert?” Mycroft asked. It was all he could think to ask, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears. He’d braced as Gregory’s skin slid against his own, knowing it would be unfamiliar but not sure how he would otherwise feel about the contact.

He needn’t have worried; it was…nice. An entirely inadequate description, but all the description he could muster in the moment. This was more physical contact – purposeful, intentional contact – than he had shared with anyone in years. Combined with the conversation they’d just navigated, this was easily the most intimate afternoon of his life.

And he was sharing it with Gregory.

Part of Mycroft’s brain was concentrating on what Gregory was saying, something about needing to find the right dish. He was a little regretful when Gregory pulled away, but smiled when he dipped a spoon in the bouillabaisse. He offered it to Mycroft, watching as he tasted.

“A family recipe?”

“Not exactly,” Gregory replied. “I used to make a similar dish but my father doesn’t have the recipe any longer.”

Mycroft nodded. “So you’re extending your repertoire,” he said.

Gregory returned with the baking dish, covering Mycroft’s hand for a moment with his own.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “I know it won’t be the same as Grand-mère’s, but,” he shrugged, his hand shifting slightly as his shoulder moved. “It’s been a long time since I made something new,” he said.

“A time for change,” Mycroft said. Gregory’s answering smile was encouraging, so he added, “And also for me, it seems.” The gentle squeeze of his fingers around Gregory’s was a stretch, but the answering tension made him smile as it was accepted.

They talked lightly of food and cooking, and as they did Mycroft grew accustomed to having Gregory’s hand in his own. It was a little awkward as they cooked together, but he was determined not to use that as an excuse. He and Gregory were going to be honest, but the confidence was still fragile and anything that might shatter it was an unacceptable option.

“The bread should be almost ready,” Gregory said eventually, apology in his voice.

Mycroft understood, releasing his fingers as Gregory shifted away. “Might I do anything to help?” he asked, feeling awkwardly useless as Gregory moved around the kitchen with confidence.

“Might be better if you stay put,” Gregory said, throwing a smile back over his shoulder. “Don’t want to run into you with a hot pan or anything.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said.

Gregory took the bread from the oven, grinning as he turned it up and it rang hollow against his knuckles. He let it rest while he slid the apricots in, moving easily around the kitchen as he gathered other items for their meal. The domesticity of the whole afternoon was strange but soft and comforting.

_I would be happy to do this on a regular basis. Perhaps at my flat, he could teach me._

“You could tell me about you plan to buy jeans,” Gregory said, his tone teasing as he placed a bowl of fiery red rouille on the table.

“Ah,” Mycroft said. He accepted the butter dish, throwing Gregory a wry glance as he set it on the table. “Less of a well formed plan, at this stage. I suspect my tailor will agree jeans should be included in my wardrobe, especially now as work will not be my primary concern.”

“Sounds like one smart human, this tailor,” Gregory replied. He was leaning against the bench, deep soup bowls in hand as he looked at Mycroft. The amused expression faded as he studied Mycroft’s discomfort, and when he spoke again his voice was more serious. “If you’re comfortable in suits, you should keep them. Really.”

“Hardly appropriate attire for…” Mycroft waved one hand around the kitchen, frowning at his lack of erudition. He didn’t even really know what he was indicating; something about the changes to his life, the potential for whatever it was developing with Gregory.

“Sitting on grass?” Gregory asked, a smile teasing at his mouth.

“Precisely,” Mycroft murmured.

“Well, you don’t have to, is all I’m saying,” Gregory said. “And I won’t bring it up if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Mycroft was quiet as Gregory served their meal, the smell intensifying until a deep richness surrounded them. He could see why there was a pile of disposable napkins on the table; mussels and clams might be messy, though they were sitting temptingly open in the broth.

“Here you go,” Gregory said, placing the bowls on the table and returning for the bread. “I made it like monkey bread.” Mycroft’s puzzlement must have shown because Gregory explained, “You can pull a piece off, see? Instead of slicing it.”

“Very clever,” Mycroft replied with a smile. Steam rose from the bowl as he dipped the bread carefully in the broth. His glasses fogged up as he leaned over, conscious of Gregory watching as he took the first bit.

“This is very good, Gregory,” Mycroft said. He had to wait for his glasses to clear of the steam, but a grin was waiting when his vision cleared.

“Thanks,” Gregory replied. “Glad it’s edible, I’ve made enough for an Army. Figured it could get me through the week.”

“An excellent plan,” Mycroft replied. “Is that something you wish to continue?”

“Maybe,” Gregory said. He spread some rouille on his bread as he considered the question. “Can’t always tell what work is going to do, but I’d like to try some new things maybe. New recipes, or old ones.”

Mycroft nodded. “You are embracing this period of change,” he said.

Gregory nodded, and they sank into warm silence for a few moments as they ate.

“What about you?” Gregory asked, returning to the table with wine glasses. “Sorry, I forgot to pour this earlier.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. “I don’t follow your question.”

“Well, in the car, before we realised we’d arrived here, I asked how you were going with so much time to yourself,” Gregory asked. “We never really had that conversation.” His face grew apprehensive and he added, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, his heart pounding at the consideration he was being shown once again, “I believe we have established that such declarations are unnecessary.”

He smiled, relaxing.

Mycroft looked down, oil swirling across the top of his broth as he trailed the spoon through it. “It is unusual,” he said, conscious he was echoing himself from in the car. “Something with which I am uncomfortable, if I am being honest.” He took a mouthful of fish, swallowing before he continued. He forced himself to look up and meet Gregory’s eyes. “I prefer routine. It is…what I have known for a long time.”

“Apart from the occasional random trip to God-Knows-Where at a moment’s notice,” Gregory added with a smile.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. “Inconsiderate of my schedule, every time.”

“You’ll still be able to have a routine,” Gregory told him. “It just won’t be a work one.”

Mycroft nodded. He was still coming to terms with it, and ridiculous as it was to admit, he felt like he wanted a little more time to process the change before talking through the possibilities, even with Gregory. It was possible his mood was visible in his manner, because Gregory asked, “So, did you have any brilliant ideas for what we could do this afternoon?”

“I did not,” Mycroft said. “From your question I will assume you did not either?”

“No,” Gregory replied. “Too busy thinking about what I was going to say in that earlier conversation.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, internally berating himself. Gregory had been experiencing a personal crisis; he wouldn’t have been debating the merits of Sunday afternoon activities.

“Your poster did inspire something new this morning,” Mycroft said. When Gregory raised one eyebrow at him, he continued, “I was up early, too early for our meeting.”

“Nervous?” Greg interjected, grinning.

“It is a habit of many years,” Mycroft replied, feeling his lip twitch. “Whether or not I was apprehensive about our meeting is immaterial.”

“So you were,” Gregory said. “So was I.”

Mycroft allowed the smile to bloom. “With some time to spare, I picked up my copy of _‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep’_ ,” he said. “Perhaps we could watch Bladerunner together?”

“Excellent idea,” Gregory replied.

They finished eating and Mycroft was relegated to watching Gregory package up the remains of their meal before they retired to his sitting room.

“I flicked the kettle on if you want a cuppa,” Gregory said, pulling the DVD out of his collection. “We could eat our apricots on the sofa, if you like.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. “I shall serve, if you prefer to set up the movie?”

“Sure,” Gregory said.

Soon they joined each other on the sofa. Mycroft had elected to leave the tea for later so they might be able to eat. Another first; Mycroft couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat on a sofa beside anyone but his mother at Christmas, and he had never been permitted to eat anywhere but the table.

_Comfortable._

Gregory sat close, though that could be the size of the sofa; there was still a gap between their bodies. Mycroft was more relieved than he would have thought. He didn’t know how he felt about so much body contact. He certainly wasn’t there yet, even if he might be comfortable with it at a later date.

As the music started, low and menacing, Gregory leaned over. “These apricots are excellent,” he said. “Thank you.”

Mycroft smiled at the kind words. “Thank _you_ ,” he replied.

The first half hour of the movie passed before their bowls were emptied. Mycroft started when Gregory reached for his bowl, placing it inside his own on the floor.

“Can I hold your hand?” he asked quietly.

Mycroft’s eyes pulled from the screen in surprise, and he felt a smile on his face to match the lopsided one on Gregory’s. He looked down, reaching over to ease his fingers between Gregory’s. It was more familiar this time, and more comfortable resting between them on the sofa than across a kitchen table.

Neither spoke while the movie was running. Mycroft was very aware of Gregory’s presence, and he was glad this was not a new movie or he might not have been able to remember what happened, let alone be prepared for the renewed debate about Dekkard’s humanity at the end. Gregory was certainly reinvigorated, turning to Mycroft the second the credits were over and resuming his position from their previous conversation. Mycroft found himself smiling at how invested Gregory was in this meaningless debate; he waited patiently while Gregory jumped back to find a scene which upheld his point.

“I must concede,” Mycroft said finally, when Gregory had pulled his hand free to gesture as he made his point. “You are clearly more impassioned regarding this matter and I no longer wish to argue with you.”

Gregory blinked for a second, not anticipating Mycroft’s words. “Hang on, you’re giving up?”

“Giving up?” Mycroft repeated. “Hardly. I stand by my position as firmly as I ever have. I am merely conceding your level of commitment to your position outstrips my own.”

Inexplicably, Gregory looked relieved by this. “Good,” he said. “Because this is the kind of stupid debate we could keep having every time we watch this movie.”

“Every time?” Mycroft replied. Something warm pooled in his chest at the implications of such a phrase.

“Yeah,” Gregory said, deliberately and carefully taking his hand again. “When you have a favourite movie, you watch it a lot. And if you watch it with someone, you have the same conversation about it every time.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said. “I was unaware of the formalities of such a situation.”

“It’s true,” Gregory told him, a gentle smile playing around his mouth. “Trust me, I’m a police officer.”

“More reassuring words have never been spoken,” Mycroft said dryly.

Gregory gave a shout of laughter. “Good to know,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you through, Mycroft.”

Although they had been speaking of the unlikely formalities of movie-watching, the way Gregory was looking at Mycroft made it clear he was talking about more than just this small matter.

_He wants me to know he’s going to take care of me._

_What an unexpectedly appealing idea._

“Thank you,” Mycroft said quietly. “That is very kind.”

He held Gregory’s eyes for a few moments before asking after the bathroom. The few moments alone were strange, and he took a second to look at himself in the mirror. The pullover was not new, but he’d hardly worn it; one of Emilio’s insistences last time he’d gone in was that he buy ‘at least one outfit’ not suitable for work. Given how much he’d rallied against the idea, Mycroft knew he would essentially be eating humble pie to return and ask Emilio for a wider selection of the same. Jeans were a whole different language, and it was possible Emilio would dramatically faint away at the very idea before helping Mycroft.

The man in the mirror was unfamiliar but it was more than that clothes. He looked amused, the idea of Emilio’s reaction when Mycroft next spoke to him still curling in his brain. His spine was less rigid too, and with his hands in his pockets he was practically comfortable here. How very unexpected.

“Cuppa?” Gregory asked when Mycroft returned to the kitchen.

Mycroft hesitated. He didn’t want to impose too long, and there was something else. With a deep breath, he smiled at Gregory, stepping across the small kitchen. “Thank you,” he said, “but I will decline.”

Gregory nodded, closing the drawer of mugs. “You’re heading off, then?”

Mycroft nodded, unsure how to phrase what he was thinking. “Your company has been most enjoyable,” he said. “Please do not think I tire of it.” He paused, his brow tensing into a frown. Gregory was being patient, waiting for him to find the right words. “I should go home. Begin to determine how I will spend my evenings.” He looked up at Gregory, knowing it was tentative. “Perhaps consider how I might shape my personal routine.”

“Right,” Gregory said. His eyes were bright with a curious mix of something, but he was obviously about to speak so Mycroft filed it away for future consideration. “Sounds like a good idea.” He took a deep breath. “If I can help with that…I mean, before you lock too many things in, I’d like to be part of it. If you want. Your routine. As much as I can, I mean work isn’t always predictable…”

He was beginning to gabble, and Mycroft’s heart was beating fast at what he’d revealed. He wanted to be a part of Mycroft’s life. Regularly. Well, as regularly as a Detective Inspector might be expected to be a part of anything, his professional commitments being what they were.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, deliberately interrupting. He stepped closer, leaving Gregory some personal space but picking up his hand and holding it tight. “Perhaps I might ask you to dinner on Wednesday.”

“Sure,” Gregory replied, curling his fingers in reply.

“That would make two weeks in a row, which is too few to be considered a pattern,” Mycroft continued, “but it is a beginning.”

Gregory’s face broke into a relived smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that would be great.”

Mycroft nodded. “I would very much like to see you again,” he said, choosing his words carefully, conscious to avoid ambiguity. “My routine will be an ongoing process, I am certain. I would appreciate your help in shaping it.”

“Yeah,” Gregory said again. “Yeah, that would be great, Mycroft.”

They stood there looking at each other before Mycroft said, “I should go.”

“Sure,” Gregory replied. For a second Mycroft thought he was going to say something else, but he did not. “I’ll walk you to the door,” he said.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said again. The few seconds between the kitchen and the door were awkwardly silent; Mycroft turned back once he’d crossed the threshold to see Gregory smiling at him. He returned the smile, lingering a moment before turning away.

“Bye,” Gregory said softly.

As the car moved through the streets towards home, Mycroft reviewed the expression he’d seen in Gregory’s eyes in the kitchen.

_Fondness. Amusement. Pride. Happiness._

Was he feeling all that for Mycroft? It seemed like an extraordinary mix, and yet given the previous conversation – regarding his decision to consider a personal routine – it would fit. Assuming Gregory felt those things towards Mycroft at all. The more time they spent together, the more likely it seemed. To his immense surprise, Mycroft was enjoying this slow exploration with Gregory and the more they both opened up, the more comfortable he found himself becoming. It was entirely new, but with Gregory so clearly prepared to be vulnerable and unsure, Mycroft felt safe.


	11. Chapter 11

Greg would definitely make the bouillabaisse again. There was plenty for lunch on Monday and Sally was astonished when he told her he made it.

“From scratch?” she said.

“Yep,” he replied. “Here, try this.”

“God, that’s good,” she said, still holding the spare spoon. “So I’m guessing the date either went really badly, because you had time to make this,” she pointed at the bowl of bouillabaisse he was eating, “or really well and they helped you cook.”

“It went well,” Greg replied, but offered no more than that. Instead he passed her a piece of bread with rouille.

She’d closed her eyes at the firey mix, and Greg laughed when she begged for the recipe. “No, sod that, just make me a whole jar of the stuff, okay?”

He promised to bring her some the next day, his good mood lasting him through a pile of paperwork and a blessedly murder-free shift. It meant he was marginally closer to being on top of his emails when he left at a reasonable hour, which continued his good mood, and on impulse, Greg decided to go back to the bar in which he’d met Tom. He had no idea if they were open on Monday nights; it wasn’t his regular and a lot of places closed on Mondays.

He must have talking himself into expecting the bar to be closed, because surprise shot through him when he arrived and it was open. The room was fairly empty; a few old timers near the door, but the far end included a bunch of twenty or so people. They were sitting around several small tables but conversations were flowing back and forth, several pizzas and bowls of chips dotted around the group. Obviously a club or something, Greg thought uneasily. He glanced at the bartender – definitely not Tom – and had turned to go before he heard his name.

“Greg!”

Turning back automatically, Greg saw someone extracting themselves from the group with a wide smile.

“Tom,” Greg said, a smile coming over his face at the pleasure clearly radiating from Tom. “How are you?”

“I’m well, I was just talking about you,” Tom said, shaking his hand and slapping him on the shoulder. He didn’t make a move closer to the group, but looked straight at Greg. “Excellent timing. This is a bunch of my friends, we meet every month or so to catch up. There’re a couple here on that app I mentioned if you wanted to meet them.”

Greg blinked, filling in the gaps of what Tom was very carefully not saying out loud.

_These are Tom’s friends. And a bunch of them are Ace._

His heart started pounding for some reason.

_Am I ready for this?_

“No pressure,” Tom said, and Greg could feel himself being watched carefully. “You and I could sit and have a drink over there if you wanted to talk.”

“No, no,” Greg said, “I’m just…thinking.”

“Sure,” Tom said. “Look, they’re really nice. And when I said I was talking about you, I didn’t mention you by name, so you could just be Greg.”

_They wouldn’t have to know, if you don’t want them to._

_Jesus, this guy is brilliant at this._

“Do you do this a lot?” Greg asked. “Talk to people like me, I mean. People just figuring stuff out?”

“I do, actually,” Tom said. “I meet a lot of people, and I do some work with advocacy groups, and,” he shrugged. “I like to help people. Make people feel comfortable, if I can.”

“Sounds like my job, a bit,” Greg said. “I’m a copper.”

Tom brightened. “Well, you’re welcome here,” he said. “We’ve got all sorts.” He turned and pointed, though Greg couldn’t tell which members he was counting off. “Pharmacist, social worker, couple of shop assistants, plumber, professional dancer. The mix changes, but you might be our first copper, actually.”

“Okay,” Greg said. “I’ll grab a pint first.”

He and Tom walked over to the bar, Tom insisting the pint was on the house. Greg knew he must look nervous, but Tom just threw one arm around his shoulders and when they got closer, shouted, “Oi! This is Greg, new friend of mine. Shove over, Paula, make space.”

A chorus of voices welcomed him, and Greg sank onto a chair, smiling at some of the people around him. Most went back to their conversation, but the woman next to him turned to introduce herself.

“Hi, I’m Paula,” she said, tucking short black hair behind her ear. “Another one of Tom’s adoptees, are you?”

“Greg,” he said. “Er, what?”

“Tom tends to adopt lost souls,” she said, nodding at the far end of the table, where Tom was deep in conversation. “Anyone he thinks could use a friend or two.”

Greg felt his face grow warm at the description of himself in such a light. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” Paula said. “I mean, I was one. Still am, I guess.”

“How did you meet Tom?” Greg asked, figuring that was a safe topic. He drank from his pint. Hopefully the alcohol would ease his nerves.

“Here, of course,” she said. “Late one night, moaning about my lack of social life.”

“Sounds familiar,” Greg said with a grin. Paula was charismatic as she explained how Tom had listened, given some careful advice and then invited her here.

“And now I come every month,” Paula said with a shrug. “I must have a friendly face or something because he often sends the new people to me first.”

“She can talk the leg off a chair,” came a voice from other side of Paula. “That’s why.” The person attached to the voice held out their hand. “I’m Andie, my pronouns are they/them. Tom and I work at the Rainbow Alliance together.”

“Good to meet you,” Greg said. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had lead off with their pronouns; must have been during diversity training at work last year. He glanced around, wondering if this was some kind of LGBTQIA support group or something. He couldn’t tell, of course; other than a subtle rainbow or two, it just looked like a group of people.

_Jesus Greg, get a hold of yourself._

“Don’t worry,” Paula said, as Andie returned to their own conversation, “it’s not like that.”

“Like what?” Greg asked, knowing he sounded defensive. He took a long draw of his pint.

“We’re not all militant rainbow people looking to change the world,” Paula said.

“What?” Greg asked.

Paula’s smile was amused but she was patient. “This isn’t some kind of gay outreach, or whatever. Although between us we probably have every colour of that rainbow covered, and then some.” She waved one hand around. “Tom just collects people he thinks could use someone to talk to. He’s really good at helping people make connections.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. He felt his heart pounding and he was slightly outside himself as he said, “Actually, I think that might be why he asked me to join. The…gay outreach bit.”

“Oh, right,” Paula said. “Well in that case, we can definitely be that.” She grinned at him, leaning in conspiratorially. “Some people get a bit freaked out if we just announce it, but a lot of the new people that come are looking for somewhere to talk about what they’re discovering about themselves.”

She seemed to think this was completely normal, Greg thought dazedly. He nodded, not entirely sure what came next. He wasn’t sure if he should ask questions, or tell about himself or what.

“So, do you want me to introduce you around?” Paula said. She was studying his face, but he found his eye wandering across the group apprehensively. “Hey, Greg.” She waited until he was looking at her. “You look like you’re about five seconds from bolting out of here. This is a safe space for anyone, but it doesn’t mean you need to talk about anything in particular. If you want I can leave you alone and you can just sit with us for a while. Or we can talk about nothing in particular. Andie was right, I’m obviously good at that.” She grinned, and Greg felt himself smile a little in return. “Or if you want to go the other was entirely, you can tell me what you’re wanting to talk about and I can hook you up with people in the same boat as you, or as close as we can manage.”

Greg nodded. It was all a bit overwhelming, to be honest. He looked around the group, tuning into a couple of snippets of conversation, allowing himself to get a proper feel for the atmosphere. His professional instincts were pretty well honed, and this group felt comfortable. Not threatening.

“…they’ll be relegated if they keep performing like that, it’s frankly embarrassing…”

“…she doesn’t listen, what I am meant to do? It’s driving me bonkers!”

“…so I told her, if you put it in writing I’m legally not allowed to action it.”

“…I can never get the colours to blend properly. What kind of brush do you use?”

He could feel Paula waiting, apparently happy to let Greg figure it out.

_Do it. This is a good opportunity._

Carefully he cleared his throat and waited for Paula to turn back. “I met Tom a few weeks ago,” he said. “Another date gone bad at the end of the night.”

Paula nodded but didn’t interrupt.

“We talked, and he gave me some…advice,” Greg said awkwardly. “Suggested I try a different app.” He cleared his throat. “Ace.”

“And how’s it going?” she asked.

“Okay,” Greg said, feeling tension ease out of his muscles. “I met someone, actually. Someone I kind of knew, but I didn’t know he was…” he huffed a laugh. “I didn’t even know I was,” deep breath, “ace.”

Paula nodded. “It’s a big thing to realise,” she said. “Well, from what I’ve heard. I’ve known I was gay since I was a kid, no surprises for me there.”

Greg nodded.

“So, do you want me to introduce you to some people?” she asked. “The only danger is that you’ll run into each other on Ace at some point and only one of you will swipe left.”

Greg groaned. “Basic dating app nightmare, then?”

“Pretty much,” Paula grinned.

“Go on then,” Greg said. He knew his face was flushing, and his heart was beating fast, but it felt like the right combination of determination and terror. He stood up and followed Paula as she led him to another table, waving over another woman as she did so.

“Allie, Sam and Maya,” she said, “this is Greg. He’s new to Ace, but I’ve warned him not to be surprised if you all run into each other.”

Allie pulled up a chair for Greg beside her own as she joined Sam and Maya. “It’s worse than the Allo apps,” she said. “A much smaller community.”

“I bet Paula told you about Sam and me,” Maya said.

“I don’t think so?” Greg said.

“Well, let me tell you now. Nothing like a good humiliation to break the ice,” Maya said with a grin.

+++

Two hours later, Greg was thankful for the quiet coolness of the air as he walked home. Maya’s story – about she and Sam swiping opposite directions on Ace before realising they knew each other in real life – was funny and the right amount of self-deprecating to break the ice, just as she’d predicted. The conversation flowed easily, and Greg found himself talking about Mycroft – though he’d referred to him as Myc, feeling bad for the deception but instinctively protecting Mycroft’s anonymity.

None of the conversation was too deep, but there were enough, ‘dating regular people is so awkward’ comments to make him feel comfortable in the group. Nobody questioned him other than inviting him to join in the conversation, and when he left, Greg felt more relaxed than he had in a long time. And he’d learned a new word. Allosexual. Good to know there was a proper word for everyone else, he told himself as he locked the front door behind him. So much better than the words he’d been thinking, words that automatically made him feel bad. They weren’t normal, or regular, or straight. They were allosexual. ‘Allo’, as Allie had put it. Just that small piece of knowledge eased his heart of a burden more than he realised was even there.

He hadn’t exchanged more than a raised hand with Tom as he left, so now he pulled out his phone, wanting to thank Tom. He didn’t know how to put it into words, so opted for the simplest version.

_Thanks, Tom. – Greg_

The response came right away.

_No problem. You’re welcome any time. Sam tells me you met someone on Ace already – you have to tell me how you managed that, I’m still looking for a half-decent meetup! Good to hear things are okay. Take care. -_ _Tom_


	12. Chapter 12

Who would have thought evenings would be so interminable?

Now that his replacements were doing well, Mycroft was actually able – and expected – to leave work as he’d said he would, at 6pm every evening, with only the most dire of situations to interrupt the next fourteen hours.

Every day. Every _single_ day.

The first time he had really considered the long game was the Sunday evening after the day he’d spent with Gregory. He was in a reflective mood that night, revisiting their conversations. It had taken hours, which made the evening feel far shorter. The late afternoon meal along with the wine and pleasant company meant Mycroft felt tired earlier than usual. He took the opportunity to retire early.

As he brushed his teeth, Mycroft amended that thought. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually listened to his body telling him it was tired. Fatigue was a nuisance, the kind of inconvenience to which he never bothered listening. Caffeine and a powerful grip on his self-control meant he worked until he dropped, sometimes literally sleeping on his desk for a few hours in between workdays. He had convinced himself it was necessity but now it was evident he was wrong.

Late Monday morning as he looked out his window, Mycroft realised it was good timing for him to be beginning to accept how minor his role now was. He’d been using the term for decades, since his early years when it was actually true. To anyone who knew, the wry smile that came in response told Mycroft they understood. It was the kind of deliberately false statement made when one was not actually at liberty to divulge what it was they do for a living.

First thing Monday morning, Anthea brought him a piece of mail. The Royal Seal was clear, as was the handwriting. The combination of the head of MI6’s handwriting and that Seal was unusual, but Mycroft had been expecting it. When Anthea made to leave before he could open it, he bade her stay. This did after all involve her.

It was as he’d expected.

There had obviously been meetings over the weekend; the heads of MI5 and MI6, along with Her Majesty, had all signed the papers Mycroft recognised from his last negotiation. He was officially…well, there wasn’t really a word for it. He was not unemployed, and his security clearance was the same, but the three organisations for whom he worked had formally acknowledged that he was no longer their go-to person. He would stay on in a largely advisory capacity; a new section had been created, independent of either MI5 or MI6, essentially filling the role Mycroft used to play.

A small bubble of satisfaction rose in him at the knowledge it evidently took four people to take over his portfolio.

_Perhaps I was useful, then._

“Was there something you needed, sir?”

Mycroft only realised he was staring out the window when Anthea’s voice drew him back inside. He held up the letter.

“Have you read this?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she replied. “You only just broke the seal yourself, sir.”

“I mean, are you aware of its contents,” Mycroft corrected himself calmly.

Anthea hesitated, her body still. “There have been rumours,” she said finally.

“And?” Mycroft asked. He felt removed from his emotions, as though it didn’t really matter what the rumours said, but he was curious nonetheless.

“You’re resigning your position,” Anthea said. “An independent unit has been set up to take over your portfolio.” She hesitated. “I have been offered a role within the unit.”

“I hope you accepted,” Mycroft said.

“I did not,” Anthea replied indignantly. When Mycroft raised his eyebrow in surprise, she lifted her chin and said, “I informed them I was in a unique position to lead the team, given how closely you and I have worked over the past ten years.”

“And they accepted?” Mycroft asked, allowing a small smile of satisfaction to turn his mouth up.

“Of course,” Anthea said. She smiled, her own satisfaction evident.

“Excellent,” Mycroft replied. He pulled himself together, sitting up and collating the papers. “I will be continuing to work, an advisory role, if you will. More regular hours and a lesser requirement for me to be…on call.”

Anthea nodded. “We will be poorer for your loss, sir,” she said quietly.

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. Her understated sincerity moved him more than he expected. “Though as I am neither dead nor banished, you might still request my assistance should you require it.”

Anthea smiled. “I’m sure we will.” She hesitated. “If I might make a suggestion for my replacement?”

“Arrange whomever you believe will be suitable,” Mycroft replied. “The role will be significantly smaller, of course.” He handed her the envelope. “Read this, you’ll need to know the specifics of my role.”

Anthea nodded. “It’s a good thing my security clearance has been approved,” she said. “This is Alpha, Mycroft.”

“I know,” he said calmly.

She stood up, hesitating before saying, “Your replacement will be here before week’s end. I hope I am not out of line by saying it has been a privilege working with you, sir.”

“You are not,” Mycroft replied. “I am deeply grateful for all you have done for me.”

Anthea left, closing the door behind her. Mycroft swivelled his chair, though he did not see what was out the window. He reviewed the document in his mind instead. It was still not quite real, but as of right now, his portfolio was far smaller, his role more focussed on supporting others to take in what he had learned over his career. Nobody had mentioned it outright, of course, but when he retired he would not be replaced. There would be no need; by then there would be a small unit, possibly without a name, made up of people who between them held all the skills and techniques Mycroft Holmes had ever mastered.

It was a long term plan to put himself out of work, and he was far less worried about it than he thought he would be. More concerning right now was what he would do with his evening.

That Monday was odd, his car dropping him at the Club at 6.15pm. Though the staff were far too well trained to express surprise, Mycroft felt assessing eyes on him, their curiosity at seeing him so early evident, though nobody ventured to approach him. He ate and read several publications before retiring home at the relatively early hour of 9.30pm. Somewhere he’d read a regular bedtime would be beneficial, though he generally scoffed at such things. He’d survived just fine for years without such nonsense, and when he slept nine hours in a row that night, waking with his alarm at 7am, it was disconcerting to say the least. Dawn had melted into morning, for goodness sake; such a thing was unheard of. And yet he hardly required more than 40 minutes to prepare for the day, his car picking him up in time to arrive at work promptly at 8am.

That day passed quickly enough. Work was still absorbing, though different than he was used to. No long-distance calls or carefully worded memos to the current Prime Minister, hoping to avoid an international crisis. Instead he worked steadily on guidelines designed for Anthea’s unit to use in their work. A few phone calls came through, mainly asking for his advice on tasks that would have been unquestionably his only a week ago. It was quiet and calm, yet he felt dread building in him as the clock ticked closer to 6pm.

Though he was tempted to stay – there was always work, if one cared to look for it – Mycroft forced himself to leave at the designated time. What was the point of so much effort to change the status quo if he was not going to do as he said he would? Pushing down an odd burst of shame, Mycroft asked to be dropped at his flat instead of the Club. Hesitantly he changed out of his work suit and into the same shirt and trousers he’d worn to Gregory’s. He really did need to contact Emilio if he was going to spend so many waking hours in alternative pastimes.

Perhaps he should be considering Gregory’s words. Routine would be important. Nothing too rigid to begin with. He would need space to figure out what worked and what didn’t, and he may require some leeway to follow his mood. He would begin with bedtime, then. Sitting down to write out his plan was calming; it made him feel in control.

Unfortunately, when the plan sat before him finished, Mycroft realised he still had two and a half hours until his bedtime routine would commence. Restless, he ordered a take-away, calling down to reception to ensure the security detail would bring it up to him. The surprise in the receptionist’s voice was clear, and Mycroft wondered if she even knew who he was. He certainly couldn’t picture her. Had he ever actually spoken to anyone at reception?

He tried to continue the book he’d started, but it reminded him of Gregory and he cast it aside. There was a whole room of books; he’d spent an exorbitant amount of money on a flat with three bedrooms specifically so he could have a library. It was an extravagance, especially for someone who worked as much as he did, but now it felt ridiculous. He hadn’t read half the books here in years. Did he even remember enough Ancient Greek to read the _Iliad_?

The hours passed slowly, Mycroft unable to settle to anything. He began his bed-time routine on time and with a sense of relief at having some direction. Sleep was a long time coming, and it wasn’t until he woke in the morning he realised he’d finally drifted off.

Somehow he felt more tired than on the nights he gathered only a few hours. Why was that? Surely his body would feel better with more unbroken hours of sleep? He pondered it as he prepared for the working day. Tea and toast was all he could stomach, fatigue causing his stomach to protest at the idea of anything more substantial.

Before Mycroft could head downstairs, his mobile phone pinged.

_We still on for tonight? I hope so. – Greg_

He blinked. He’d invited Gregory here, for dinner on Wednesday. Wednesday was today. A rush of adrenaline warred with relief. He had plans for this evening. And they involved Gregory.

With shaking hands he replied.

_Of course. I will send a car for you at 6.45pm if that is acceptable. – MH_

The reply came immediately.

_Perfect. Might still be at work, I’ll let you know. – Greg_

Mycroft nodded, blowing out a breath. His day did not seem so daunting now that he had something planned for the evening, and something pleasurable at that. As the car took him to work, Mycroft organised a meal to be delivered to his home at 7.30pm. He had to guess what Gregory would enjoy and made a mental note to ask his preferences for next time.

_Next time._

The day passed quickly enough, though Mycroft found himself watching the clock. Anthea had made a short list of three people who might replace her. They were all superbly qualified, of course, and he appreciated Anthea knew it would be a matter of personality as to which suited him best. Interviews with each were unavoidable. The task occupied his morning, and by early afternoon he’d asked Anthea to contact each with his decision. Andrew would do well, having a similar mind-set to Anthea’s, and Mycroft anticipated seeing him this week as Anthea trained him as best she could in the two and a half remaining days before she left.

Changes, indeed.

As Mycroft drank a cup of tea and mentally reviewed his plan for the evening, ignoring the work waiting for him, he realised his wardrobe contained only a single appropriate outfit. The one Gregory had already seen.

_Unacceptable._

Without another thought, he picked up the phone and called Emilio. His name was well known enough to ensure they would see him right away; he wondered who had been bumped to accommodate him, but decided it was enough of an emergency to negate any guilt.

Emilio reacted much as Mycroft thought he might, his smug satisfaction driving a whirlwind of action. His experience helped build Mycroft a casual wardrobe from what he had available, but he insisted Mycroft come in again the following week to be properly fitted for jeans and at least two blazers. Despite this, Mycroft still walked out with enough clothes to get him through this evening and another date, should it occur before the next week.

_Another date…_

Mycroft didn’t want to admit to himself how much he wanted it to happen. Apart from helping to fill his Sunday – so many empty hours was daunting – spending time with Gregory was equal parts comfortable and terrifying. The very premise of their relationship was based on a concept he would not even have considered a month ago, and yet they were somehow finding their way through, and in a way that made Mycroft feel stronger and more confident in himself.

_Made it home! Still okay to send me a car? – Greg_

_Of course. – MH_

With just enough time to change and check his flat was presentable – of course it was – Gregory arrived at Mycroft’s flat. Reception let Mycroft know his guest was on the way, and the security guard escorted him upstairs. The minute or so in between speaking with reception and the knock on his door was nerve wracking. Mycroft found himself fiddling with the hem of his new pullover and forced his hands to still until they reached for the door.

“Please remind me to register you at reception when you leave,” Mycroft said, taking Gregory’s coat. “You will need to sign in, but the security escort will be unnecessary.”

“Sure,” Gregory said, grinning. “Great to see you again.”

“And you,” Mycroft replied, the truth of it making him smile. “I’m pleased nobody was murdered.”

“So am I,” Gregory said. “So are they, probably.”

“Please come in,” Mycroft said, suddenly realising they were still standing in his entranceway. He rarely had guests and had no idea what to say as they walked to the kitchen.

“Wow, I’d love to cook in here,” Gregory said, looking around.

“I rarely use it,” Mycroft admitted. It was larger than he needed, and much larger than Gregory’s.

“Now that you have more time, maybe you will,” Gregory said with a smile.

“I have ordered a meal for this evening,” Mycroft said apologetically. “Cooking is not something with which I have skill or experience, I’m afraid.”

“No problem,” Gregory replied. He sat on a stool at the kitchen island. “Though if you wanted to learn I could teach you.”

“Really?” Mycroft asked, the question dropping from his mouth without thought. He felt his cheeks heat at his poor self-control, but Gregory didn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah,” Gregory replied. “Maybe that could be you know, our Wednesday night thing.” He waved one hand around. “Better do it here, though, far more space.”

“That’s very kind,” Mycroft said. His heart squeezed as Gregory revealed a little more of himself. “Are you sure you would not mind?”

“What, having a regular date night?” Gregory replied. “Where we get to cook? Sounds great to me.”

Mycroft nodded. “That would be wonderful,” he said honestly, the effusive comment drawing heat to his cheeks. He reached for the wine to cover the flush he knew would be showing.

“So how’s your week been?” Gregory asked.

Mycroft poured wine, passing one glass to Gregory before answering. “I received official notification of my change of status at work,” he said. “I am unable to be specific, however the changes I proposed have already begun to come into effect.”

Gregory nodded. “Does that mean you’ve been coming home early?” he asked.

“You are very perceptive,” Mycroft said with a wry smile. “It does, in fact.”

“And how’s that going?” Gregory asked.

Mycroft tilted his head. “It is difficult,” he admitted quietly.

Gregory nodded, not speaking. It was strange to have somebody so obviously prepared to wait while he ordered his thoughts. Strange but pleasant, so Mycroft made the effort to express himself more fully.

“I am not used to having so much free time,” Mycroft said. He plucked self-consciously at his new pullover. “I had to leave work early today in order to expand my wardrobe,” he admitted. “I had only the one pullover suitable for our meetings.”

“I think we can call them dates,” Gregory said. “If you wanted to.”

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured, lifting his wine glass.

Greg grinned. “Well that colour is great on you,” he said. “No jeans though?”

The heat in Mycroft’s cheeks intensified. “I have an appointment next week,” he admitted. “You will have to accept me in tailored trousers until then, I’m afraid.”

“Mycroft,” Gregory started. His expression and tone clearly marked the coming admonishment.

“I know,” Mycroft said over whatever Gregory had been going to say. “Thank you.”

“Well then perhaps we can make a Sunday morning run a regular thing too,” Gregory said. “Work allowing, of course.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. “If that is the case I may have to ensure I run more often during the week.”

_Or at all,_ he admitted to himself. It was something to fill his evenings, at any rate.

“Well there you go, that’s something to do,” Gregory said with a grin.

_He had the same thought._

“I presume your knee was fine after Sunday’s exertions?” Mycroft asked.

Gregory looked at him over the rim of his glass. “I think we both know that wasn’t entirely true,” he said. His cheeks showed the same pink flush Mycroft had felt earlier as he admitted his white lie. “I did injure my knee when I was younger, but it’s fine now.”

Mycroft debated asking a further question, but the doorbell signalled the arrival of their meal. To his mortification the table was not set, but Gregory did not seem to mind.

“Let’s just eat here,” Gregory said, nodding at the kitchen bench. “Look, you grab plates and cutlery and I’ll take the lids off all this.”

“I wasn’t sure of your preferences,” Mycroft said as Gregory opened several containers, the heavy Indian spices wafting into the room.

“Anything is fine,” Gregory said. “Especially when it just shows up. Like magic, really.”

“Really, Gregory,” Mycroft said. He couldn’t believe they were eating in his kitchen, plastic containers between them as they shared out rice and curry and naan, but Gregory appeared quite content. _Perhaps casual is less stressful._ Mycroft wasn’t sure he entirely agreed yet, but if it meant sitting here with a happy Gregory, he might be convinced.

Glancing at Gregory and receiving a beaming smile in reply, Mycroft decided to ask the question he’d been considering earlier.

“Was there something that did stop you running more regularly?” he asked.

“I stopped running when work picked up,” Gregory replied, swallowing a mouthful. “When I was promoted, really. Kept up the football, but without the running I wasn’t as fast as the others.” His cheeks were turning red and he looked down at his meal. “Bit embarrassing really, so I took a break. Never went back, though.”

Mycroft nodded. “It can be difficult to fit everything into a busy life,” he said.

“Sounds like you have the opposite problem at the moment,” Gregory replied, looking back up.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. “Though I’m sure I’ll find something to fill the hours.”

The conversation drifted away as the meal drew to a close, and Mycroft felt himself stifling a yawn. To his utter embarrassment, Gregory grinned at the sight.

“Probably time for me to go,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Yeah, it’s almost eleven.”

“Eleven?” Mycroft repeated.

_There goes tonight’s routine._ He considered how he felt about it. _Entirely worth the departure._

Gregory stood up, hesitating by the front door. “I know you wanted to get reception to sign me up or something,” he said, “so maybe we could say goodbye here. Properly.”

“Properly?” Mycroft asked. The soft comfortable fatigue was washed away by a wave of uncertainty, closely chased by panic as he considered what that might mean. A host of possibilities came up and he swallowed, mentally working to calm himself down.

_Relax. Gregory is trustworthy. And truthful. He will explain._

_You’re allowed to say no._

“I’d like to give you a hug,” Gregory said, the words carefully calm in the quiet space. “How would you feel about that?”

Mycroft considered it. “I’m not sure,” he said.

“Would you be willing to try it?” Gregory asked. “We can keep it gentle. And you can move away whenever you want.”

Mycroft thought again, his heart beating fast. _Be honest. Communicate._ He could see Gregory watching him, waiting as his brain raced. Words jumbled together in his brain and he fought to choose the right ones.

“I have no idea if I will enjoy it,” he whispered, the words like a confession between the two of them.

Gregory was silent for a beat. “Do you remember the last conversation we had on Sunday, about preferences?”

Mycroft nodded. “We agreed to try nonverbal communication,” he said. “You could have just hugged me.”

“Yeah,” Gregory said frowning a little, “but I didn’t want to ambush you.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

_He’s working hard to do this carefully._

He could see Gregory still fighting to find the right words, so he continued hesitantly, “Yes. A…gentle hug would be…we could try that.”

Gregory nodded, his eyes still watchful as he spoke. “Why don’t you step towards me,” he suggested, “then you’ll have space to step back when you’re done.”

Mycroft nodded. It was a long time since he’d been in such intimate closeness to anybody. He breathed deeply, conscious of Gregory’s eyes on him again. _He’s nervous too._ Though Mycroft knew Gregory had a host more experience with physical intimacy, it wasn’t the same. This was far more personal.

One further breath, and he stepped forward. This close he could smell Gregory’s cologne; his brain couldn’t process a lot of detail, though Gregory’s posture was more upright than usual. Hesitantly, Mycroft reached out, one arm wrapping around Gregory’s waist, the other over his shoulder. Was this how grown people hugged each other?

Whether it was right or wrong was immaterial, as he felt Gregory mirror his own actions. They drew together, chests barely touching. Mycroft could feel Gregory breathing. Not only the exhalations across the side of his neck, but the rise and fall of his chest. That was odd. Unfamiliar, and a little disconcerting, but not enough to move away. Gregory’s arms were gentle, settled against him and remaining still. It was a lot of sensory input; Mycroft had not expected to be so aware of so many details. He’d anticipated the scent and a certain amount of pressure and awareness of another body close, but being able to feel another person breathe, the way his arms shifted as Gregory’s torso shifted…it was something new. The right word was elusive. He wondered if a single word even existed to describe something so monumental.

Big, perhaps.

But not bad.

When Mycroft shifted, then eased away, stepping back, Gregory let go immediately.

“Thank you,” Gregory said quietly. “I’d never actually known if I liked that.”

Mycroft nodded, blinking. He’d almost forgotten that Gregory was exploring too. “I would not be averse to that again,” he said, mindful of their commitment to be as open as possible. “If it was something you wanted.”

“I think it is,” Gregory said. A beat, before he added, “So do you want to walk me down and talk to the receptionist about security?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied.

It was a simple process, though Mycroft realised he’d never actually done this with anyone. It was completed on behalf of his brother, but Sherlock would not deign to come down here, so Mycroft had had to pull strings to make it happen.

“See you Sunday?” Mycroft said, as they stood on the doorstep.

“Or sooner,” Gregory said. “If you want some company, or a phone call. We don’t have to stick with just Wednesdays and Sundays.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. _I should have known that._ “Travel safe, Gregory.”

“Good night,” Gregory replied with a smile.


	13. Chapter 13

Greg rubbed his eyes, wincing at the burn. It was Friday, and between the two new cases he’d picked up last night and the impending court case, the chances of an early night were slim. Okay, they were worse than slim, and tomorrow already felt like an overtime kind of a day. He was trying to work out how many people he could ask to come in without overshoot his budget. Budgets were almost the least fun thing in the entire world, and he was already mentally deciding what he’d order in for the evening. Might as well keep pushing through, and the more he got done now the less likely he’d have to bail on Mycroft on Sunday.

“Boss?” Sally asked, appearing at the doorway.

Greg dropped his hands from his face and waved her in. “How’s it going on Lawson?”

“It’s stalled. Ozola was working on it, but she’s been pulled over to show Surlmann how to cross-reference data from the Brisbane case.”

Greg groaned. Why couldn’t people just do the job he’d asked of them? He reached absently for his phone as it buzzed, not even looking at it as he replied to Sally.

“Okay, but we need Ozola to finish what she’s doing so we can send it over to Vice today. Can you make sure she…”

His voice trailed off as a second buzz pulled his eyes to his phone. It was barely a glance, but enough to show him who the message was from. The smile was tugging at his mouth before he could control it, and Sally made it very clear she’d seen his reaction.

“Is that someone special?” she asked, grinning. She closed the door and dropped into the chair opposite his desk. “Things still going well, then?”

“Yes and yes,” Greg replied, knowing there was no point trying to hide it. He was made, and Sally was too good at her job for him to try and deny it.

“Anything else you’d like to share with the class?” Sally asked. “Name, description, last known address?”

Greg rolled his eyes, indulging her joke for a second while his heart raced.

“Actually,” he said, “It’s going really well. Slow, but...good.”

“Good?” Sally said. “Good means either excellent or terrible, and from the dopey grin on your face I’m guessing it’s leaning towards excellent.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied, feeling his face heat. “He- he’s great.”

An eyebrow rose, as it always did, but to Greg’s relief it was merely amusement glinting in her eyes.

“And he’s not on the job,” she mused. “But you won’t tell me who it is?”

Greg swallowed, wondering. “If I did,” he said carefully, “you’d have to keep it to yourself.”

“So it’s someone I know,” Sally shot back. “Interesting.”

Her eyes were probing now, and Greg swallowed.

_She’ll work it out. Too good at her job._

“It’s Sherlock’s brother,” he said. “Mycroft.”

Sally’s eyes widened and Greg finally had the feeling he’d managed to shock her. “Seriously?” she said. “With the dark cars and the umbrella?”

“Yes,” Greg said. He sat watching her, not filling the silence he knew she’d left between them on purpose.

“Alright,” she said eventually. “Well, I’m glad you’re happy.” She stood, pointing to his phone. “Better see what he wants. Might be important.”

“Thanks, Sal,” Greg said, waiting until she’d closed the door behind herself again before pulling out his phone.

_Good afternoon. I trust your day is going well? – MH_

_Mine is bland and uninteresting. As a low level white collar job should be. – MH_

Greg grinned to himself, using his thumb to dial Mycroft before the burst of happiness dissipated.

“Hi,” he said with a smile. “Can you talk?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. He sounded a little surprised.

“I thought I’d call instead of texting,” Greg said. “Is that alright?”

There was a second of silence before Mycroft replied. “It is.”

“But you weren’t expecting it,” Greg said, turning on his chair.

“I was not,” Mycroft admitted. “I rarely receive social calls.”

Greg nodded even though Mycroft couldn’t see him. “Well, I called to answer your question,” he said. “But I can text if you’d rather.” 

This time when it took a second for Mycroft to reply, Greg realised what it was. He could usually see Mycroft thinking, but now it was just silence instead. He smiled as the tiny bit of personal knowledge sparked in him. This was something he knew about Mycroft because of the time they were spending together. It felt important.

“This is fine,” Mycroft replied. “I had not expected to hear your voice today.”

“Well, my day’s super busy,” Greg said. “But I deserve a break, so I’m calling you. Strict ten minutes and I have to get back to it.”

“Noted,” Mycroft replied easily.

“The Lawson case goes to court next week,” Greg said. “And I picked up two more this week, so we’re trying to get those off the ground too. Waiting on forensics, of course, but if we can get a bunch of other stuff ready, it makes it smoother later.”

“The voice of experience,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yep,” Greg said with a grin. “How’s your day been so far?”

“Quiet,” Mycroft admitted. “But I do have a plan for this evening.”

“Oh?” Greg asked. He could picture Mycroft sitting at his desk. It would be perfectly ordered, of course, though he could still imagine a long finger reaching out to straighten the already aligned pencil or blotter.

“Yes, I have ordered the ingredients to cook,” Mycroft said.

“Really?” Greg asked. He knew he sounded surprised but hoped his delight came through too. “What are you making?”

“I will be preparing a Thai green curry,” Mycroft said. Greg could hear the defensive tone, and the smile he gave almost hurt as he held his reaction in. Mycroft was cooking.

“Sounds great,” Greg replied. “You might have to teach me to cook instead of the other way around.”

“Hardly,” Mycroft replied. “And what is on your menu for the evening?”

“Probably Thai, now that we’re talking about it,” Greg said. “There’s a place around the corner. It’s a bit hit and miss, but it’s close and open late.”

“You prefer to eat later?” Mycroft asked.

“I usually forget to order until I’m hungry, and by that time it’s late,” Greg corrected him with a laugh. “Hazard of the job.”

“I presume the bouillabaisse is finished if you’re ordering in,” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “It was good, I’ll make it again. What did you think?”

“Fishing for compliments, Gregory?” Mycroft asked with an edge of amusement.

“Ha, that’s a good one,” Greg said with a grin.

“Entirely unplanned,” Mycroft said. “And the comment stands. The meal was excellent, as I told you on Sunday.”

“You did, didn’t you?” Greg said with a grin.

“And now I must go,” Mycroft said. “Your ten minutes is up and as a tax payer I must insist you return to work.”

“Oi!” Greg said, though he wasn’t really upset. “I’ll see you on Sunday, then?”

“You will,” Mycroft said. “Though I will understand if-”

“No,” Greg interrupted, “We’re working hard now so I can justify at least the morning off.” He softened his voice. “I’d really like to see you. Even if it’s just for a run.”

“And a Danish,” Mycroft said.

“And a Danish,” Greg agreed.

“Best of luck with the rest of the afternoon and evening,” Mycroft said.

“See you Sunday,” Greg replied.

“Until then,” Mycroft said.

Greg dropped his phone on his desk and leaned back, savouring the warmth still flowing from his conversation with Mycroft. It was way better than another coffee to re-energise him. The more work he finished today and tomorrow, the more time he would be able to spend with Mycroft on Sunday. If that wasn’t motivation, he didn’t know what was.

+++

“Boss?” Sally stuck her head in the door. “Delivery for you.”

“What?” Greg said. He blinked, head still half in the paperwork he was filling out. Sally stood there holding a large delivery bag. “What is it?”

“I don’t know but it smells amazing.”

Greg frowned, wondering if he should get someone to look it over. “Is there a note?”

“No,” Sally said. She placed the bag on his desk. “Can I open it?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, watching as she peered into the bag. The smell intensified, cilantro and kaffir lime leaves swirling around them both.

“Holy shit,” Sally said. “Please tell me you’re in the mood to share.”

Greg peered in. When he recognised green curry and rice, he privately agreed with Sally’s assessment. “Yeah,” he said faintly. “Why don’t you grab some bowls from the kitchen?”

As soon as she was gone, he grabbed his phone. Time had gotten away from him as he predicted, but it was still fairly early.

_Did you send me dinner?_

The response came almost immediately.

_I did. I hope that is alright. – MH_

_Thank you. More than alright._

Greg sent the message, thought for a second, and added,

_I told Sally we were seeing each other this morning. Nothing more than that, but she’d noticed things. I hope you don’t mind. She’ll be discreet._

_Of course. There should be enough to share. – MH_

_Thank you. Sunday?_

_Yes. – MH_

Greg grinned at Sally as she returned with bowls and forks, not bothering to hide how happy he was.

“He sent this, didn’t he?” Sally said, opening a container of rice.

“Yep,” Greg replied.

They talked a little about the case as they ate, Greg quite impressed with Mycroft’s skill. It was far better than the stuff from up the road, that was for sure.

“Tell Mycroft he can feed us any time,” Sally said, putting her empty bowl on his desk and dramatically flopping back. “Where did he get it from?”

“Pretty sure he made it,” Greg told her.

“Seriously?” Sally said. She tossed her hands up dramatically. “It is not fair that he makes you so happy and he can cook too.”

“You’ll find someone,” Greg said as she piled their bowls into the box and took it all out of his office.

_Dinner was excellent. You can definitely teach me to make that at some point._

_I’m pleased you enjoyed it. I hope your evening is productive. – MH_

+++

“Should we try a different bakery today?” Greg knew he was flushed, and he could feel the grin pulling at his mouth. Some of it must be the endorphins, but the happiness had been bubbling in him since the morning, knowing he was going to see Mycroft.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. He was still panting lightly, and Greg fancied the light in his eyes was more than just his own hormonal response to the running. “Do you have a suggestion?”

“Well, I’ve tried most places east of the park,” Greg told him. He looked up and down the street, orienting himself. “I’m pretty sure there’s a _patisserie_ that way.”

“Lead on,” Mycroft said with a smile.

“You’ll have to give me the recipe for that green curry,” Greg told him as they walked. “Sally agreed, it was amazing.”

Mycroft was quiet for the length of a shop or two. “She is aware of our connection?” His voice was tentative and he glanced around as he spoke.

Greg felt his heart squeeze as he heard the vulnerability threading though Mycroft’s words. He chose his words carefully, conscious of how public this conversation already was.

“She knows I’m seeing someone,” Greg said. “She knows it’s you.” He looked at Mycroft. “I haven’t told her any details about us. Anything about how we met.” He frowned, remembering their conversation. “I might have told her it was a dating site? But nothing…specific.”

Mycroft nodded, but his face was too carefully controlled. “I understand.”

“She’s a detective,” Greg said, knowing he sounded defensive. “I thought it was better to give her something. She knows me well enough to know I was hiding something, and if she started digging, even in good faith,” he shrugged, at a loss. “I thought it was better to give her something.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, and they stopped. Greg saw his eyes flick up. “We’re at the _patisserie_.”

“Okay,” Greg said. There was nobody waiting, and they collected their Danishes without speaking. Greg’s heart was thumping hard. He knew his words had been clumsy, and he couldn’t tell if Mycroft understood or not. When they stumbled onto a small park, he stopped, heart still going fast. He turned to face Mycroft.

“I hope it was okay that I told Sally,” he said. “I mean, I know I didn’t ask you, but…”

“Gregory,” Mycroft said.

Greg felt himself stop at the gentle interruption. It was the same tone of voice as earlier, outside the _patisserie_. He drew a deep breath, preparing for whatever objection Mycroft was going to raise.

“I am not upset at your taking Sergeant Donovan into you confidence,” Mycroft said. “In fact I am grateful for your discretion about the nature of our connection.”

Greg stared, taking in the words. _He’s not angry._ “You’re not angry?” he asked, unable to make sure.

“No,” Mycroft replied. He was clearly surprised. “Should I be?”

Greg clenched the brown paper bag in which his Danish still sat. “Some people would be?”

“That sounds like a question,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I guess…I thought you might be. Since I didn’t ask you. And Sally kind of knows you. Knows who you are, at least. And I don’t know…” he shrugged. _Communicate._ “I don’t know if this will come out right. But I don’t know if you…how much you usually tell people about your life. But I know I usually tell Sally what’s happening, and I’d already not told her, if that makes sense. And,” he sighed, “since I usually do tell her, if I didn’t, she’d dig. Not to be malicious, just because…that’s what we do. So I figured if I told her a little bit, nothing too personal, she’d stop.” He swallowed, meeting Mycroft’s eyes. “Does that make sense?”

“It does,” Mycroft said quietly. “I understand your motivation, Gregory. And although I am not comfortable with people knowing the close details of our connection,” he drew a deep breath, “I am not averse to being discreetly honest about it.”

Greg nodded. He could feel the nervous tension in Mycroft, and his eyes bore the terror his admission induced. “Discreetly honest,” he said with a tentative smile. “I like that.”

Mycroft nodded. “Discussing my personal life is not something with which I am accustomed,” he continued, so quietly it was almost a whisper. “And certainly nothing like we are experiencing.”

Greg nodded, wondering if he should bring up what had just occurred to him. _Honesty._ “Maybe we should discuss that,” he said. “I don’t know about you but I’m not seeing anybody else.”

“Nor I,” Mycroft said.

Greg could see Mycroft’s fingers tightening on his Danish bag.

“And I’ve used the term ‘relationship’,” Greg said, heart rate ramping up again as he took what felt like a huge risk. “Does that sound…how do you feel about that?”

Mycroft nodded hesitantly. “It is not a term I have used in this situation,” he admitted, “though I’m sure you are aware of that.”

“Yeah,” Greg said with a nervous grin. “I’d noticed.”

Mycroft nodded again, his thinking visible. “It comes with expectations,” he said. “Assumptions.”

“It does,” Greg agreed. “Not by me, though, right?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, and his serious expression softened. “A fact of which I am very grateful, thank you.”

Greg smiled. “Well people will think what they will think,” he said. “And that’ll happen even if we were…explicit. About the details.”

“True,” Mycroft allowed.

“I’m not planning on advertising this,” Greg said quietly. It was big, bigger than he’d thought, figuring this out. He needed a second, so walked slowly over to a bench. Mycroft followed, sitting beside him. Greg was relieved. Awkward as this conversation might be, at least they were having it.

“If someone asks,” Greg said, “I don’t mind telling them it’s none of their business who I’m seeing.”

Mycroft nodded but said nothing. He instead carefully removed his Danish, pulling at the edge of the pastry. Greg followed suit and they sat in silence until Greg’s Danish was gone. Mycroft’s was still mostly intact.

“You don’t have to finish it if you don’t want to,” Greg said, indicating Mycroft’s Danish.

“Are you offering to finish it for me?” Mycroft asked. The small smile and light tone were a relief, though he did not look up.

“Not if I’m planning on getting around the park next week,” Greg told him.

“Fair enough,” Mycroft said. His eyes were still on his Danish when he said, “I have no aversion to you sharing that we are in,” he took a deep breath, “a relationship.” His exhalation was shaky. “I would be grateful if you continued to-”

“Mycroft,” Greg interrupted. He waited until his heart slowed a little from its skyrocketing pace before he continued, “I’m not ready to share that either.”

Mycroft looked up. His eyes were assessing, studying Greg for several long breaths. “Very well,” he said. “You mentioned a bartender?”

“Tom,” Greg said. “Yeah. I spoke to him a couple of times. He’s…he knows a lot about this stuff. Different people.”

Mycroft’s eyes were probing. “And you’ve spoken to him about me?”

“Not specifically,” Greg said. “I have dropped into his bar. Just to talk. To let him know things are going okay.”

“‘Okay?’” Mycroft protested mildly. His eyes were still guarded as he watched Greg.

“Well,” Greg amended with a smile. “Anyway when I got there he had a group thing going. A whole mix of people, just talking at the bar. It was…they were…nice. I told them about me. That I’d met you, but I called you Myc.”

Mycroft nodded, the apprehension in his eyes increasing as he asked, “And you told them you’re asexual?”

“I did,” Greg said. “I haven’t told anyone else.”

Mycroft nodded. “The difficulty being,” he said carefully, “if you are open about your preferences…”

“…and people know we’re seeing each other,” Greg continued, allowing Mycroft to finish the thought for both of them,

“…the conclusion is clear,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg nodded, the knowledge settling between them. _People will talk._ He could feel the tension still coming off Mycroft.

“Hey,” he said, balling up the brown bag from his Danish. He turned to face Mycroft. “This is not a decision I make about me. It’s a decision about both of us.”

“You appear to have made that decision for both of us with respect to this group in the bar,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg replied, regret swirling through him. “That might not have been…look, I’m sorry about that. I was curious to see what it was like.”

“What, precisely?”

The question was logical, but Greg took his time thinking about how to phrase his answer. He knew what he meant, but the right words were elusive and he wanted Mycroft to understand.

“To talk,” Greg said finally. “Not about being ace necessarily, but just…with people who know, you know what I mean?”

“I believe I understand,” Mycroft replied.

“You could come with me next time,” Greg said. “If you wanted.”

“You plan on attending again?” Mycroft asked.

Greg opened his mouth to answer, but closed it against his automatic answer. Was he really planning on returning to the group?

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “It was alright. They’re nice people.” He could see Mycroft nodding, though it was clear he was withdrawing. “But if I had to choose,” he leaned heavily on the words, “and I wanted to choose,” he stopped, waiting for Mycroft. “Will you look at me please?”

Mycroft’s indrawn breath was deep and unsteady, but he lifted his eyes to Greg’s.

“If you’d rather I don’t go back right now, I won’t,” he said. “I’m not saying I won’t ever want to talk to other people about this. But as I said, that’s a choice we’d both need to make. If we’re still doing this together.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said immediately. The answer appeared to surprise him, but he added, “I would like to continue.” 

Greg could see him thinking again; he bit his lip, waiting. _Please, please…_

“Disclosing such personal information is something I would prefer to avoid at this point,” Mycroft said quietly. “I am not saying that will never change. I apologise that this decision impacts your own choices in this matter.”

“Mycroft,” Greg said. He breathed deeply, finding the right words again. “Some people say you ‘have to’ consider your partner when you’re in a relationship. I consider it a privilege to have someone close enough that my decisions impact them so much.”

“And would you consider that an uncommon perspective?” Mycroft asked. “I am not familiar with many relationship norms.”

“I don’t know,” Greg replied. “But I don’t think it matters, really. What other people do is up to them. I think it’s just our relationship that matters. To me, anyway.”

“In that case,” Mycroft replied, “I will also consider it a privilege.”

“Okay, then,” Greg said. “And how would you feel if people knew you and I were together?”

“In a relationship, you mean?” Mycroft asked, and his smile sent warmth through Greg.

“Yeah,” Greg replied.

“Without the intention to send out a press release,” Mycroft said dryly, “I would not be averse to the idea.”

Greg nodded, knowing his face was breaking into a wide smile. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t call the papers, then.”

“I would appreciate it,” Mycroft replied. His smile faded as he added, “I will need to inform my employers of your identity. If that is acceptable?”

“Of course,” Greg replied.

They sat quietly for a few minutes before Greg shifted. “I should have a shower,” he said. He turned to Mycroft. “Fancy a movie afternoon again?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. “Perhaps you might join me at my flat this afternoon.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. His grin was back, and he felt light knowing he and Mycroft had solidified their status.

_In a relationship._


	14. Chapter 14

“Mycroft?”

He blinked, stretching at the voice coming from his phone. As it turned out his Ancient Greek was good enough to read the _Iliad_ , and as it had done in the past the story had dragged him in. It took a moment to bring himself back to the present.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, hearing the smile in his own voice. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

They’d only seen each other on Sunday of course, but with no plans before Wednesday the phone call was a nice surprise. He sounded different today, and Mycroft closed his book, paying attention to the nuances in Gregory’s voice.

“Can I…are you busy?”

Mycroft pulled himself up, concentrating on Gregory’s voice. He sounded upset. _Something has happened._

“Not at all,” he said. “Is there something I can do?”

“Can I come over?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “Shall I send a car?”

“Please,” Gregory whispered.

Mycroft wanted to ask what might have happened, but the call ended. His brain jumped into overdrive as he ordered a car to Gregory’s flat immediately. He tried not to think of the possibilities, instead reminding himself that in his distress, Gregory had reached out.

_He wants to see me._

It had been three weeks since they had agreed to define what was growing between them as a relationship. Mycroft spent a number of hours pondering the term, deliberately using it to refer to himself and Gregory in his mind, monitoring his own response. When he found himself becoming accustomed to it, Mycroft had to admit he was cautiously optimistic about what the future might bring.

As he waited, Mycroft automatically replaced his book on the shelf, ensuring the spine lined up with the rest. The rest of the flat was spotless, of course. The only discrepancy in the usual order was the paperwork sitting on his hall table, awaiting Gregory’s signature. The initial forms were internal and only Mycroft and Andrew had needed to see them. To Andrew’s credit – and Mycroft’s private relief – they barely passed half-a-dozen words concerning the matter. The replacement of Anthea with Andrew was working out well enough, though with such a reduced workload Andrew hardly had the opportunity to demonstrate the extent of his skills.

When reception notified him of Gregory’s arrival, Mycroft made sure he was waiting in the hall. The quick triple rap on the door was typical of Gregory; Mycroft opened the door immediately.

“Good evening,” he began, but the sight of slumped shoulders and a miserable expression stopped him from speaking any further. Instead he stepped back, making space for Gregory to come in.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Mycroft turned. Gregory was standing several feet away, and Mycroft was overwhelmed by what his eyes saw. _Distressed. Emotional. Left home in a hurry._ A dozen details confirmed the deductions and he blinked, raising his eyes to meet Gregory’s. They were red-rimmed, swollen along with the rest of his face, and he looked exhausted.

“What happened?” Mycroft whispered.

Gregory swallowed hard. “My father had a stroke,” he said. “He’s gone.”

Mycroft nodded. He pressed down the panic rising in him. Emotional support was not exactly his forte, but his learning curve had been steep in the past weeks. With a deep breath, he stepped forward.

“A hug?” Mycroft asked. These questions had become both a habit and a private shorthand; they always asked and the intimacy of fewer and fewer words became part of the ritual. At this point he didn’t wait to step closer, his arms out. Neither of them had ever refused a hug, and though he was ready in case the rejection came, it was still a relief when Gregory met him, arms tight around his back.

It was a slow process, but Mycroft was learning he liked hugs. If nothing else, he could feel Gregory relax into it, and that in itself was enough to make it worthwhile. Realising how much it comforted Gregory had been a turning point and though Mycroft would not often seek out a hug for himself, seeing the soft release in Gregory’s eyes afterwards was motivation enough to open his arms. This time, the tension was palpable in the hard muscles of his back. He was shaking, his face pressed into Mycroft’s neck. Though they hugged at almost every meeting now, it was rarely so close and he was knocked off balance. Mycroft felt himself swallow at the increased intimacy. It wasn’t bad, but its intensity was unexpected.

The shaking continued as Gregory sobbed, the wet patch on Mycroft’s collar growing as the minutes passed. Mycroft closed his eyes, retreating a little as he coached himself through the unfamiliar extended contact. Gregory needed him. Had asked to come over, in fact, and it was a small enough act to hold him while he was so clearly distraught. It took a long time before Mycroft felt relaxation begin to soften Gregory’s body. The shaking subsided and Gregory’s tight hold loosened gradually until his hands pressed flat and gentle against Mycroft’s back.

“Better?” Mycroft asked. The incomplete sentences were uncomfortable for him, but murmured words, an interrogatory tone; this was how you spoke in such a moment. He was learning.

“Yes,” Gregory whispered, his voice hoarse with grief. “Thank you.”

Mycroft continued to hold on until he felt Gregory’s arm loosen again, sliding off his shoulders. He slackened his own arms, allowing Gregory to open the space as much as he chose. It was a small step, barely enough to separate their bodies; he ran his hand down Mycroft’s arm to tangle their fingers. Following the lead here was important, and Mycroft wanted to be available for what was needed.

_Comfort._

Mycroft tightened his fingers. He wasn’t sure what the right thing was to do now, so he waited. Gregory was looking down, his eyes on their hands connected between them. His face was partially obscured, but Mycroft could see the frown marring his brow. It pulled at his heart seeing Gregory so distressed, and it took all his willpower to remain quiet.

“Thank you,” Gregory finally said. He looked up, embarrassment clear even in the dim light.

“Can I make you some tea?” Mycroft asked quietly.

“Please,” Gregory asked.

They walked together, hand in hand into the kitchen. Mycroft ensured Gregory was seated before he filled the kettle. The camomile tea was close; they’d made it before, a late night drink before Gregory left for his own flat. Hopefully the familiar scent would add a layer of comfort to the warmth.

“Here,” Mycroft said quietly, placing a mug before Gregory.

“Thanks,” Gregory replied. He looked up from his hands, blinking for a moment at something. “You’re wearing jeans.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “You recall Emilio ordered a number of pairs on my behalf?”

“They look good,” Gregory said.

“I am still becoming accustomed to the experience,” Mycroft admitted.

When his routine planning stalled, he’d read a number of books on the subject. One in particular had stressed the importance of separating work and personal time. Changing out of his work attire as soon as he arrived home was apparently a signal to his unconscious brain. The jeans were still somewhat uncomfortable, but as he was now finding sleep easier and more restful, he was loathed to change anything.

“But you’re wearing them,” Gregory said.

“I am,” Mycroft replied. He felt his face colour. “I am aware you appreciate how they look.”

Gregory looked up, a flash amusement on his tired face. “You wear them for me?”

“Not entirely,” Mycroft protested. “Though I would probably not have chosen them for myself. Until recently.” The slight, brief smile that crossed Gregory’s face eased his own discomfort. _I’m helping. I think. Easing his distress._

“If…would you like to watch a film?” Mycroft asked tentatively. “Unless you would like to talk about your father?”

Gregory shook his head, frowning briefly before his brow cleared. “No, a movie sounds…good,” he said. “Better than talking.” He added, “Not that I don’t want to talk to you, but I…” he drew a shaking breath.

Mycroft deliberately left silence hanging as he walked around the bench to stand beside Gregory. “Would you care to choose?” he asked simply.

“You pick something,” Gregory replied.

Mycroft nodded. “Shall we retire to the sitting room?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Gregory said. He made himself comfortable as Mycroft hesitated over the DVDs.

“Would you like me to offer you a selection?” Mycroft asked.

“You choose,” Gregory repeated. “I don’t know how much I’ll be concentrating.”

Mycroft nodded. It was hardly a risk, choosing something he’d purchased only after he’d seen how well used Gregory’s copy of the same was at his house. And if the film was familiar it would reduce the need for him to concentrate.

As the opening credits rolled, Mycroft sat on the sofa. He and Gregory had developed a comfortable routine as they sat together. If they were reading, they needed more space; watching movies allowed them to sit closer. Mycroft was now relaxed as his shoulder brushed against Gregory’s, and he almost expected to have his hand taken as they settled. The habit was becoming more comfortable, and it was something Mycroft often considered now. How had he gone so long without this kind of contact? He hadn’t even known such intimacy was possible. Not in such a simple way.

The film passed, Mycroft’s attention more on Gregory than the storyline. They had watched this before, and as the credits rolled, Mycroft glanced over. This would generally be the point at which Gregory would ask Mycroft’s opinion of the antagonist’s core motivation, but tonight he sat still, tears rolling silently down his cheeks.

Mycroft turned off the television and DVD player with his free hand before digging in his jeans pocket. It was definitely a drawback, the lack of breast pockets in his casual clothes; the handkerchief he finally extracted was quite crumpled but he handed it over anyway. Gregory took it, dabbing at his cheeks without speaking. Mycroft had no idea what to do; he wondered if it was true that sitting with someone in their grief was enough. It certainly felt entirely insufficient, but what words would offer true comfort at this time? None that he could think of in any of the languages with which he was familiar.

Finally, Gregory spoke.

“Thanks,” he said tightly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know-”

“Do not apologise,” Mycroft said immediately, cutting off the apology. “Is it not one of the expectations of a relationship that emotional support be available when required?”

_Relationship._

He used the word deliberately, and the small smile was his reward, wet though it was.

“Yeah, kind of,” Gregory replied. “But still.”

“Do you know how often anyone has ever come to me in such a situation?” Mycroft asked. When Gregory shook his head, Mycroft continued, “Never.”

“Never?” Gregory replied.

“No,” Mycroft said “I have never found myself to be a source of comfort for someone.” He smiled, hoping his sincerity would shine over the pounding of his heart. “Overused though the sentiment may be, I am honoured you thought of me.”

Gregory snuffled another laugh and his fingers tightened on Mycroft’s. “Funeral’s next week, probably,” he managed. “Have to get some leave, go and see how Mum’s getting on.”

Mycroft nodded. Logistics were a far easier conversation. “If there is anything I can do to facilitate your leave,” he said. “Or anything else to make the experience less…” he trailed off, realising he again had no idea what he could do to ease the way.

“It’s going to be shit,” Gregory replied quietly. “Nothing I can do about that.”

Mycroft nodded. “If you would like company,” he said, “I could travel with you. As a friend, should you prefer it.”

Gregory blinked, staring straight ahead for long enough to make Mycroft nervous. Was it the wrong thing to do? Should he not have intimated that Gregory would prefer to keep their relationship hidden from his family?

“I think,” Gregory said slowly, “it’ll be good to have some time with my mum. And my extended family.” He glanced over. “That is not because I don’t want you there. It’s just…” he trailed off, eyes begging Mycroft to understand.

There was only one answer he could give.

“I understand,” Mycroft replied. “Family is a delicate matter.”

Gregory nodded, though his eyes were still fragile. “It’s not because we’re…it’s not anything about us.” He lowered his head, tears dripped out between closed eyelids. “I haven’t been to see them often enough,” he whispered. “I should have visited more. And now it should be just us.”

“I understand,” Mycroft repeated. He wanted to offer more words but instead tightened his fingers against Gregory’s. The silence sat around them and as Gregory did not move, Mycroft slowly realised this was, in fact, enough. Perhaps not by his standards, but if Gregory was content to sit here without speaking, he should honour it and simply be.

Being enough was something Gregory was slowly teaching him to accept. Half a year ago, Mycroft would never have believed his company would have warranted someone coming to his home for conversation and a movie. The concept of that person – or any other – calling for comfort, for a hug and a hand held while a familiar movie played, was unthinkable. And yet here they sat.

He was learning.

+++

_I’m here. It’s bloody surreal. And my French is atrocious._

_It will come back to you. – MH_

_Not at this rate. Everyone keeps switching to English. *facepalm_

_I beg your pardon? – MH_

_Google it. ;)_

_Please do not continue sending me the sideways faces, Gregory. – MH_

_It’s how I’m coping, Myc._

_We have also spoken about your use of that nickname. – MH_

_I’m a grieving man, Mycroft. Are you really going to take away my coping mechanisms?_

_I would hazard you are a tipsy man looking for an excuse to break our agreement about nicknames, Gregory. – MH_

_Dammit. You’re right. How can you deduce me from the other side of the English channel?_

_I know you well, Gregory. – MH_

_Thank God for that._

_+++_

_It’s done. Nice service. Thank God they didn’t want me to speak._

_How are you feeling? – MH_

_Exhausted. Could sleep for a week. Might watch Die Hard or something._

_The familiarity of John McClane’s epic struggle will certainly comfort you. – MH_

_Oi! It’s a classic. :P_

_Please, Gregory. The sideways faces again? – MH_

_Okay. I’m going to crash, actually. Thanks for making me smile._

_Anytime. – MH_

_+++_

_Tell me about your day. Have you been for a run?_

_I have. The park is surprisingly full so early in the morning. How are you? – MH_

_Mum’s pretty sad. My aunts are great though, I didn’t realise how close they’ve become. She’ll be okay when I come home._

_That must be a relief. – MH_

_What else? It’s strange not hearing what you’re doing._

_I apologise for the reduction in my messaging, I did not wish to interfere in this family time. – MH_

_I made saag chicken last night. – MH_

_Please. I miss you, I want to hear how you’re doing._

_From scratch? How was it?_

_I have spent the morning investigating the best options for new cookware. – MH_

_What?_

_I burnt the pan beyond repair. In my defence, the roti with which I was preoccupied came out perfectly. – MH_

_You made roti from scratch too? Amazing!_

_How kind of you to focus on my success and not my failure. – MH_

_I’m focussing on the food ;)_

_I trust I’m using this correctly. With reference to your previous message *facepalm – MH_

_Perfect :D_

_+++_

_How was the flight home? – MH_

_Meh. A flight. Should have booked the train though for all the fuss at the airport._

_It is convenient. Have you arranged a meal for this evening? – MH_

_Nope._

_I will have plenty to share should you desire company. – MH_

_If you mean you, absolutely._

_To whom else would I be referring? – MH_

_I don’t know, but I’d hate to show up and someone else was there. Right now I just want to sit and talk to you._

_An admirable plan. Shall I send a car? – MH_

_Please. I’ll be ready in half an hour._

_I look forward to it. – MH_

_Me too. I’ve missed you._

_As have I. – MH_


	15. Chapter 15

Greg grinned at Mycroft’s reaction to the meal he’d prepared.

“Is it a special occasion?” he asked with the smile that never failed to make Greg feel happy.

“Not really,” Greg replied. “I just felt like doing something different.”

“And how many people are we to expect?” Mycroft asked. “I would say an even dozen should make an admirable beginning.”

“None,” Greg said. The warmth in his belly was delicious as he and Mycroft shared a fond smile. “Actually I’m pretty sure you’re better with dates and stuff than I am. I just realised it was about six months since we’d agreed we were seeing each other and I felt it warranted something special.”

“Ah,” Mycroft replied with a smile. He eased closer, leaning against the benchtop beside Greg, their shoulders pressed comfortably together. 

Greg had gone all out over the last couple of days, knowing Mycroft’s scheduled time overseas would mean a few days off when he returned. It felt rash to book his own time off purely to coincide, but the surprised pleasure in Mycroft’s eyes when Greg had hesitantly explained eased his discomfort. Cooking still reminded him of his father, and Greg now visited the fish markets regularly. The few days while he was home before Mycroft arrived back in the city he’d spent cooking, reading new recipes and re-reading _The Hobbit_ and _The Lord of the Rings._ He could make bouillabaisse without the recipe now, though this time he’d opted for a charcuterie spread instead. The bread and condiments were homemade but most of the cheese and meats were from the delicatessen and there was a fair balance of fresh fruit and veg too. It really was far too much for two people, but it looked impressive.

“There might be a bit more than we can eat tonight,” Greg conceded, leaning into Mycroft’s shoulder. “But I couldn’t decide which to buy so I opted for them all.”

“Fortunately we have several days,” Mycroft replied. “And five Tolkein movies to occupy our time.”

“Six,” Greg corrected him with a grin. “They made _The Hobbit_ into a trilogy, too.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his smile softening the questioning expression. “Well in that case we had best get started.”

Greg nodded, passing Mycroft a plate. They concentrated on filling their plates before moving into Greg’s sitting room and settling on the sofa. There was wine, water (at Mycroft’s insistence) and food, and in deference to the chill in the air, a blanket to share.

The perfect way to spend the day.

After much intense debate over the last week, mostly via text message, they decided to watch _The Hobbit_ series first as it was chronologically before that of _The Lord of the Rings._ Mycroft pointed out since they were both intimately familiar with both series it probably didn’t matter, but another dozen messages passed between them on the subject anyway before it was decided.

By the time _An Unexpected Journey_ was done, Greg was very comfortable. His belly was full, he’d drunk both his wine and his water (two breaks so they could relieve themselves stood tribute to that) and he and Mycroft were comfortably cozy under their blanket. He stretched, his neck a little stiff after he’d slumped sideways a bit onto Mycroft.

“Ready for the next?” he asked with a grin.

“Perhaps a short break,” Mycroft suggested. “We really should secure the food in the refrigerator, and it would be prudent to stretch before beginning another long film.”

“True,” Greg replied with a smile. He picked up their plates. “Come and talk to me while I pack up.”

“Hardly likely,” Mycroft said, taking the empty glasses.

“Oi,” Greg said mildly, recognising the term he’d taken to using lately. He wasn’t sure where he’d picked it up, but it appeared to amuse Mycroft so he continued to do so.

“I will help, as you are surely aware by now,” Mycroft replied.

“Of course I am,” Greg said. He reached around Mycroft for the plastic wrap and started packing away the food. “It really is far too much, isn’t it?”

“We could prepare a gift box,” Mycroft said. “For the night security team in my building.” He surveyed the table. “And possibly tomorrow’s day shift, depending on what time I return tomorrow.”

“That’s an idea,” Greg replied. He dug around for a couple of spare plastic containers. The matching lids took a bit longer, and he passed them to Mycroft who was already placing a careful selection in each box. As he glanced up, the question Greg had been considering rose again, and he wondered if this was the moment.

“Was there something?” Mycroft asked, his eyes still on the smoked mackerel he was lifting into the first box.

“What?” Greg said, blinking.

“You’ve been staring at me,” Mycroft said, his eyes meeting Greg’s. He must have seen something, because he put down the knife and spoon he was using and faced Greg. “And you are clearly debating raising a new topic of conversation.”

Greg swallowed. “It’s annoying when you do that,” he said, but there was more fear than exasperation in his voice, and he knew Mycroft heard it too.

“What is it?” Mycroft asked quietly.

“Two things,” Greg said. “They’re not big things but they’ve been on my mind so I might as well say them both at the same time.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied. “Should I sit down?”

“I don’t think so,” Greg said. “I’m not breaking up with you or anything.”

“That is comforting to hear,” Mycroft said seriously, and Greg knew he was being sincere. It was still slightly surreal to them both that they were in this, and both happy, and twin veins of vulnerability ran close to the surface in both of them. “But there is something bothering you.”

“Two things,” Greg said. “The first one, it’s not a big deal, but ages ago, right at the start, I sometimes called you Myc, and I know you really hated it so I stopped.” He drew a deep breath, studying Mycroft’s expression. “But sometimes…how would you feel if I did have a nickname for you? Nothing awkward, and only for us together, but something that was just yours. From me.”

Mycroft blinked. Greg could feel his heart in his throat as Mycroft considered the question. It was something he loved, that Mycroft always gave questions his full attention, but the seconds in which he waited were excruciating.

“Perhaps you might offer some suggestions,” Mycroft said. “I have never had such a designation thrust upon me and I cannot say with any certainty that I would enjoy it, but I am open to the possibility.”

Greg nodded. “When I think about you,” he said, the words sounding far more intimate in the cool air of his kitchen than they did in his head, “I use ‘Sweetheart’.” He swallowed. “How…how do you feel about that?”

Mycroft thought again. “You use that with reference to me?” His fingers curled against the edge of the table under his hip.

“Yes,” Greg replied.

“Very well,” Mycroft said cautiously. “I am not opposed to it in the short term.”

Greg nodded, not quite sure he was ready to grin with relief quiet yet. “So I can give it a try,” he translated.

Mycroft nodded.

“Okay,” Greg whispered. He breathed deeply, relief a slow soothing roil through his belly.

_Thank you, sweetheart._

He was still concentrating on his breathing when Mycroft spoke again. “If I recall there was another topic on your mind.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. He drew a deep breath, leaving the previous conversation in his mind. How was he going to bring this up? “Well,” he said, “it was something someone said the other day, it got me thinking. And then what you just said about going home and coming back.”

Greg could see Mycroft tense up and he swore to himself. This was not going in the right direction.

“When Sally asked what I was doing with my time off, I was vague,” Greg said. “She asked if I’d be seeing you and I said probably.” Greg tried to smile but Mycroft’s blank expression curled into him, miserable and cold. “She joked that if I was taking all that time off we might as well just move in together for the week.”

Mycroft didn’t speak for a long, slow moment. His lips were pressed together and Greg could almost see the barricades forming behind his eyes. The panic rose in Greg and he opened his mouth without thinking.

“It made me realise how much I don’t want us to move in together,” Greg blurted.

Whatever Mycroft might have thought Greg meant, his clumsy words made it clear. “I beg your pardon?” he whispered.

“In every other relationship I’ve had, people assume that by this point you’re having ‘sleepovers’, if not talking about…”

“Moving in together,” Mycroft finished for him.

“Yes,” Greg replied. “And as you know, I am working hard at figuring out what I actually want in this relationship.”

“I know,” Mycroft said quietly. His hands were no longer clenched, and the tension in his shoulders was fast melting away.

_He’s not angry._

Greg felt his breath catch as he realised they were having a conversation and not an argument.

“I’m listening.” Mycroft’s voice was still quiet and encouraging.

“So,” Greg said, “when Sally made that comment, it got me thinking. About what I really do want in that respect. About sharing a bed, to start with.”

Mycroft nodded.

“We haven’t spent the night together,” Greg said. Stating a fact was easier than asking a question.

“No, we have not,” Mycroft agreed. He hesitated, then added, “The subject has not come up. Until now.”

“Until now,” Greg agreed. “How…I mean, how do you feel about that?”

“The thought has occurred to me,” Mycroft whispered. “I will admit the idea does not,” he swallowed, “appeal.”

Greg nodded. “Thank you,” he said. When Mycroft frowned, he added, “For being honest.” He tried to smile. “You’re braver than me.”

“And what are your thoughts on the matter?” Mycroft asked. “If we’re talking about spending the night together.”

Greg made himself think about it. He owed Mycroft that before he answered. This was important. He remembered what had occurred to him all those months ago when this was first beginning.

_It came with the expectation, too. That he wouldn’t hide, and he wouldn’t lie._

“I don’t think I want to do that,” he whispered. It felt like a betrayal, and to his surprise and dismay tears welled in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Please, don’t,” Mycroft said.

Greg didn’t speak, but he opened his arms. They didn’t need words for this anymore, and when he felt the air move he knew it was Mycroft’s body shifting it. A second later Greg’s empty arms were wrapped around Mycroft’s waist.

“Don’t apologise,” Mycroft’s voice was barely above a whisper, but they were so close it didn’t matter. Greg could hear his words and feel him breathing and it was calming.

“Please, do not apologise for being honest,” Mycroft said. “You asked the same of me.”

“I did,” Greg replied. Jesus, this was hard.

“But it sounds like we have an accord,” Mycroft replied, easing back to meet Greg’s eyes. “So there is no need for recriminations.” He smiled, the soft encouraging kind Greg loved. “So if we are of the same mind regarding sharing a bed, it would make sense we could extrapolate that to a more serious commitment.”

“You mean moving in together?” Greg asked.

“I do,” Mycroft replied. “I believe there is an acronym for this kind of relationship, for those who find labels useful. LAT.”

“LAT?” Greg repeated.

“I believe it stands for Living Apart Together,” Mycroft said.

Greg mouthed the words, and despite the seriousness of the conversation, a burble of laughter rose in his throat. “Okay,” he managed, "and what does that mean?"

"I believe it is intended to convey a person's status as committed to their relationship without the need to live together," Mycroft replied. "Granted, I have only found the term used on Ace-community boards, however its use appears to be growing."

Greg nodded, not quite able to push down his initial reaction. He swallowed, but when he met Mycroft’s eyes his mirth was mirrored.

Almost immediately they were both chuckling, Greg shaking his head at the ridiculousness of the whole thing.

“It sounds like a drug recovery centre person named it,” Greg said. “Or one of those ‘be the best you’ seminars.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. “If we ignore the trite nature of the title, however, my point remains. That a committed, monogamous relationship does not require cohabitation.”

Greg nodded. Christ, this had been a rollercoaster of a conversation, but like a lot of the times he and Mycroft had worked through something difficult, he actually felt better after. The uncertainty was gone, and he was growing more and more confident that he and Mycroft were on the same page.

“If we start _The Desolation of Smaug_ now, we’ll be able to fit in _The Battle of the Five Armies_ tonight,” Greg said.

“An excellent point,” Mycroft replied.

He reached out and Greg laced their fingers together, meeting Mycroft’s eyes with a warmth of his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, the best ever return on a 5k FTH piece. Thank you Cat for your prompt and unending support.  
> Finishing a long story always feels a little surreal. I'm fortunate enough to have had a number of people tell me this story holds special meaning to them and so finding the ending is a relief in a way, mainly because I didn't mess it up and I didn't lose momentum in the middle. I hope anyone who relates to this Greg or Mycroft feels that I've done their experiences justice. It has been an honour to have so many people tell me parts of their story as we've explored this together, and with any luck this small brick in the Ace visibility path makes a difference.  
> Stay safe, stay kind. <3 Blue


End file.
